May. 30 2016

One year ago today, I had my bharatanatyam arangetram.

Depending on your experience with Indian classical arts and South Asian culture at large, that may or may not mean anything significant to you. To me, it is noteworthy because (among other reasons) I wrote an impassioned essay almost three years ago arguing against the mangled institution that arangetrams (Indian classical dance debuts) have become. In it, I lamented the fact that people often have arangetrams now just to check it off a list and throw a grand party for their children, without paying attention to tradition or quality, and I justified why I likely would never have one of my own.

On May 30, 2015, I did it after all. And a year later, I don’t regret it– but I do still feel just as strongly as I did three years ago about what goes into an arangetram and why it should or shouldn’t be done. I refuse to post a cheesy photo today using phrases like “best day of my life” and “aranga-versary”, but I’m going to take a shot at my first listicle instead. So here are four things I’ve learned from my arangetram experience:

1. Talent is important, but it isn’t everything.

Some people are born with the gift of dance. I am not one of those people. I have never stood out as the best dancer in any class I’ve been in, and my dance skills were never something I’ve been particularly known for. I’ve never played a lead role in a dance production, and the only times I am in the center of a formation are when I am dancing solo. When I was choreographing a dance in college for the annual IASA show, one of the participants dropped out after two practices because she thought I wasn’t a good enough dancer to be leading the group. I don’t blame her.

Regardless of talent, however, I’ve had no shortage of hypocrisy. I attended my first arangetram when I was 12, and since then I have been eager to pass judgment on every one that I watch. I’m always so quick to criticize posture and flexibility and expression and just about everything else, and I’ve rarely thought arangetram dancers were “good enough”. I told myself that if I did it, I was going to have the best arangetram I’ve ever seen. I told myself that I would put in an enormous amount of effort to ensure that I didn’t fall into my own traps; that my posture and flexibility and expression would all be up to my own standards.

In retrospect, this was a terrible approach to take. My arangetram did not come even close to meeting the impossible standards I set for myself; but I know I approached it with sincerity and commitment. I did it because I wanted to and I did it my way. True passion and commitment are far more important than raw talent in a debut performance– and they’re much harder to fake. An arangetram is just the beginning, and if you’re doing yours for the right reasons, then you’ll have plenty more chances to grow your talent. And I’ve reconsidered my own standards, having finally been in these shoes (or ghungroos?) myself.

2. When you choose the right items, the whole audience feels it.

My teacher and I carefully crafted my arangetram program together, selecting ten items that not only followed tradition and showcased my abilities, but that I would enjoy performing. We chose a powerful varnam on the Divine Mother, a feisty javali portraying the khandita nayika (a heroine enraged with her lover), and a haunting and rare Shiva keertanam, among others. My parents suggested that many of the items be in Telugu– often a rarity in the Tamil-dominated bharatanatyam world. While most students generally perform items they have previously learned for the majority of an arangetram, I learned seven new items for mine. I was 22– quite a bit older than the average arangetram debutante– and I wanted to have more say in what I did. I wanted every minute to be exciting, and after months of tireless debate and discussion with my teacher, I wound up with a program that I loved.

I discovered my love for raw abhinaya and my fascination with jathis through the diverse items that I fully dedicated myself to for six months. But my favorite was (and still is) the varnam. Maye Mayan Sodariye is a deeply reverent item describing the Goddess Parvati in all Her beauty and power.  At the end of the item, as I sat all the way down in prostration, I saw Her before my eyes– a vision of what I had only pretended to see in all my rehearsals. And I’d like to think the whole audience saw her too. I am still figuring out my own religious belief system; but in that moment, drenched in sweat from head to toe and heart racing from forty straight minutes of dance, I believed.

3. You are only as good as the effort you put in.

The biggest catalyst for finally having my arangetram was the unique situation I found myself in in early 2015. I graduated from college in December 2014 and accepted a job that didn’t start until September 2015, leaving me with a large chunk of time that I knew I’d never have again. I always thought that balancing arangetram practice with school or work didn’t allow for the amount of commitment or energy necessary to do the performance justice– and here I was with the gift of what felt like endless time.

I was essentially a full-time student of dance for almost six months leading up to my arangetram, although that sounds much more impressive than it actually was. In reality, I slept in almost every day, watched way too much TV, and didn’t go to the gym even half as much as I promised myself (or my gym buddy: my mom) that I would. I had no responsibilities other than dance and couldn’t have hoped for a more ideal circumstance, but I don’t think I used that time to my full advantage as far the actual dancing (to the detriment of my performance). But I did use much of the additional time to take on tasks that dancers often don’t have the time to do themselves. I designed my own invitations and programs, addressed every invitation by hand, created my own lobby centerpieces, wrote my own script, and planned every decoration. Those six months not only allowed me to grow as a dancer, but also as a performing arts manager, and I’m grateful for that experience.

4. People will give you gifts, but you decide what to do with them.

My arangetram did not coincide with my graduation (or any other major event in my life). And unlike graduations, I don’t believe arangetrams are gift-giving occasions. An audience’s support and appreciation is more than enough. As such, I refused to set out a table for gifts in the lobby for mine, against the behest of many friends that were helping. At the end of the program, I came into the lobby to discover that a side table had been repurposed to support an enormous pile of gifts that audience members had insisted on bringing.

All in all, I received over $1000 worth of gifts I wasn’t expecting.

I have poured all of that money back into furthering my dance education and experience. Since my arangetram, I have returned to the stage three times so far (a paucity justified only by my less-than-year-old move to a new part of the country). I’m lucky to live in a city that exposes me to numerous top-notch Indian classical music & dance productions throughout the year. I’m currently training and performing with the Navatman Dance Company, and later this week I will be taking my first ballet class in almost fourteen years (because a great plié and a great aramandi go hand in hand). I’m continuing to experiment with new styles and techniques, and I don’t plan to stop any time soon.

May 30, 2015 was a great day– but it wasn’t the best day of my life. The best day of my life is any day that I get to be on stage. Every hour that I spent one on one with my dance teacher leading up to my arangetram was among the best hours of my life. Every time I lose myself in a dance, it’s the best moment of my life. And that’s what I’ll continue to chase– not a stamp on a resume, but a passion for life.

Photo credit to Ajay Gokhale.

Jun. 29 2015

// The speech below was delivered at the 2015 University of Michigan College of Engineering commencement ceremony and can be viewed here.

I’d like to start off with a quick poll. How many of you know how to get to room 2211 GG Brown?

Bewildered and confused, this is the question I asked everyone I crossed paths with on my way to my first class in GG Brown my freshman year. I knew engineering was supposed to be hard, but I didn’t realize the difficulty began with just finding the rooms!

4 years later, I’ll admit I still can’t tell you exactly where 2211 GG Brown is. But I’ve learned a few shortcuts around the building, a few stairwells here, a few doors there that might lead me to where I need to go. Essentially, I’ve learned to do a bit of problem solving.

What is an engineer, if not a problem solver? While much of the world may view us as problem solvers in the lab, at the chalkboard, or on a computer, we as Michigan Engineers are much more than that. We’re proving everyday that we are committed to solving problems in every field— whether it’s increasing the number of women in STEM education, providing clean water to areas of the world that need it most, or creating technology that allows people who’ve suffered leg injuries to walk again.

When you’re finishing a problem set, the equations in front of you likely are not the only thing you’re solving. If you’re like me, you’re also solving for how much caffeine you need to get through the night, how long you have to get food before Mujo closes, and how many hours you have to go until you can officially say you’ve pulled an all-nighter. Once you’ve finished the problem set, you might have to solve for how much Netflix is really too much to watch in one night. You might even have to solve for how late you can stay at Rick’s when you have senior design in the morning.

But our problem solving experiences have taken us far beyond North Campus too. In the past few years, we’ve seen huge changes on campus. From drawing attention to diversity and inclusion through the #BBUM–Being Black at U-M–campaign, petitioning to change the student football seating policy, and providing opportunity, visibility, and support to student entrepreneurs, we’ve seen a wide range of causes that have sparked large movements on campus. And it’s no surprise that engineering students have been at the forefront of many of these movements, because as Michigan Engineers we’ve been continually pushed out of our comfort zones to solve problems beyond engineering.

Now we’re being pushed out of our comfort zones yet again, as many of us leave this campus and move into the next phase of our lives. But solving problems, in engineering and beyond, is something we must continue to do.

UM alum and former president Gerald R. Ford left us with the following bit of wisdom: “History and experience tell us that moral progress comes not in comfortable and complacent times, but out of trial and confusion.” We’ve already begun to work through a lot of trial and confusion here on campus, but the world we are graduating into is filled with even more opportunity for change. By 2050, the world will be home to 12 billion people—all of whom deserve access to clean water, food, healthcare, education, privacy, and equality.

It’s a tall order to find solutions for all these 12 billion people, but with a little bit of problem solving, I believe every one of us can make huge strides.

Everyday, Michigan Engineering students are breaking barriers. We’re breaking apart known molecules to synthesize new ones. We’re breaking apart the notion that engineers are socially awkward. Maybe someday we’ll even break apart walls that finally lead to 2211 GG Brown.

But the commitment to innovation, improvement, and equality doesn’t need to end here. With our University of Michigan-stamped diplomas in hand, let’s continue to embrace change in the next chapter of our lives. Let’s work our hardest to ensure that our society moves forward, and not backward. Let’s show the world that a Michigan Engineering education isn’t just an infinite loop of all-nighters and problem sets; it’s an incredible growth medium that pushes us all to promote change and break barriers wherever we go.

And finally, let’s stand up for what we believe in and speak out against the injustices we see around us–even when we aren’t directly affected by them. As Michigan Engineers, we all not only have the tools to be effective problem solvers, but a responsibility to use these tools as well. Just as a doctor takes an oath to always put her patients’ lives first… as engineers we must promise to always prioritize solving the problems around us to the best of our abilities.

Fellow graduates, never ever forget about the incredible gift of problem solving that we’ve all worked so hard for. Let’s use it wisely, and let’s use it often. Congratulations, and forever go blue!

Photos courtesy of Joseph Xu.

May. 24 2015

//A version of this piece appeared in the May 15, 2015 issue of India Abroad and on the Bharat Babies blog on May 25, 2015. It will also be featured in the 2015 TANA Telugu Paluku publication.

When I was in the second grade, my parents came to my class for a day to present to everyone about Indian culture. The year was 1999, and they had created colorful transparencies for the overhead projector, brought in cassette tapes of Indian music, and made a tray full of rava laddoos for everyone to eat. I was the only student in my class who wasn’t white or Black, and my classmates, in their youthful ignorance, asked questions ranging from “Do all Indians wear glasses?” to “What does curry taste like?”.

This is how my Indian-American narrative begins.

It’s a narrative that might strike a chord with millions of other Indian-Americans, and perhaps immigrant families of many kinds. The key phrase here is “Indian-American”, a term I identify with strongly. But not all who belong to this identity feel so positively about it.

“My dad and mom told my brother and me that we came to America to be Americans. Not Indian-Americans, simply Americans… If we wanted to be Indians, we would have stayed in India. It’s not that they are embarrassed to be from India, they love India. But they came to America because they were looking for greater opportunity and freedom.”

These remarks are from a speech by politician Bobby Jindal during a trip to London this past January. Paraphrasing this quote wouldn’t quite do it justice, wouldn’t allow the harsh implications of it to really sink in.

Bobby Jindal is the current governor of Louisiana. He’s also only the second Indian-American to have been in Congress, after Dalip Singh Saund in the 1950s, and the first Indian-American to become the governor of a state. These achievements are certainly not small, and will likely remain noteworthy in the history books of tomorrow. In fact, Jindal’s political success would probably be even more celebrated within the Indian-American community, were his viewpoints not so disparate from the struggles of Indian-Americans over the past century.

The history of Indians in America dates back to the late 1700s, when Indian traders first traveled to the Americas in search of economic opportunity. The late 1800s and early 1900s saw the first significant wave of Indian immigrants, with Anandibai Joshi graduating from the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania in 1886, and the first Sikh temple opening in Stockton, California in 1912. While Indian-Americans continued to grow in numbers, they faced huge uphill battles politically. The landmark 1923 Supreme Court case United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind ruled that Indian immigrants were “aliens” and would never be eligible for equal voting rights. Systemic discrimination against Indian-Americans did not legally end until The Luce-Celler Act was passed in 1943, allowing Indian-Americans to become citizens, and immigration on the basis of education and professional experience—the qualification that brought my own family here—was not legalized until 1965.

Indian-Americans have come a long way since the political struggles of the first half of the 20th century. Since then, hundreds of thousands of Indians have immigrated to the US and planted the roots of their families here. We now have names like Mindy Kaling and Kal Penn in entertainment, Satya Nadella and Indra Nooyi in business & technology, and Nina Davuluri as a former Miss America. We’re no longer invisible or disenfranchised, and we’ve shown that we are here to stay.  

Compared to most other fields, however, the political sphere has yet to see a wide range of prominent Indian-Americans. Names like Ami Bera, Nikki Haley, and Neel Kashkari are gaining traction and many first- and second- generation Indian-Americans are pursuing promising careers in politics. But Bobby Jindal is still the most salient name when it comes to Indian-American politicians, with some media sources even rumoring about his potential for a presidential or vice-presidential bid in 2016. And the unfortunate reality of American politics is that millions of Americans will view him as representative of the Indian-American community as a whole, whether or not he himself identifies with our community.

Later in the speech mentioned above, Jindal went on to say that he didn’t believe in “hyphenated Americans”, that assimilation should always be valued over those who try to preserve their cultural (read: Indian) identities in America.

But where does that leave the unique facets of Indian-American culture—the developments that bridge the gap between Indian and American cultural values?

From collegiate dance competitions that fuse Indian performing arts with the American competitive spirit; to the Indian-American domination of the American-as-apple-pie tradition of spelling bees; to the bridesmaids of Indian-American weddings, walking down the aisle in matching saris: our community has formed its own adaptive culture. All of these are uniquely Indian American developments—things born not out of a single culture, but rather the beautiful fusion of two. The competitions, the weddings, the shared experience of figuring out our identities—these are the lovechildren of Indian and American sensibilities, the minutiae that only begin to represent a community three million strong.

Bobby, you can change your name, your religion, your allegiances– but you cannot change how America perceives you. You cannot change how America has perceived all of us throughout its history, and how your place in that history will undoubtedly be qualified by the term “Indian-American”. Your refusal to accept the minority portion of your own identity diminishes the identities of millions of minority Americans across the country, and for that reason, you will never have my support.

While Indian-Americans have made their presence known in many different fields, Bobby Jindal is often still the first name that comes to mind for our identity in the political realm. But I’m holding out for a different kind of Indian-American politician to climb to the top: one who isn’t too proud to acknowledge her or his shared background with the other three million of us; one who can celebrate America without disparaging India; one whose declaration of patriotism doesn’t simultaneously erase all of our stories.

Bobby, you might edit your narrative all you want, until the term “Indian-American” is completely purged from it. But don’t you dare delete it from mine.

Jun. 15 2014

A few months, a video called “Ban Bossy” went viral and flooded my (and probably your) newsfeed. The video features several successful American women, including Sheryl Sandberg, Condoleezza Rice, and Beyoncé, who tell viewers to stop using the word “bossy” to describe young girls who are asserting themselves, as it pushes them away from developing into leaders. If you haven’t seen it yet, here’s the short but poignant video:

Predictably, the campaign was met with loads of praise. But this wasn’t enough to convince me.

The problem with this video is that “bossy” doesn’t need banning in the first place. “Bossy” isn’t a word that’s used to describe girls who show great leadership potential; it’s used for girls and boys (and really people of any age) who are disrespectful or unreasonably demanding. And banning this word isn’t truly progressive when it comes to closing the gender gap. Some of the women in this video are personal idols of mine (Beyoncé, Sheryl Sandberg) and all are incredibly successful—meaning the fact that they may have been called “bossy” once hasn’t impeded their achievements later in life. This critique isn’t for them.

This is for the girl in fourth grade who one day, empowered by the presence of a young, unwitting substitute teacher, punched my twiggy eight-year-old arm after I politely declined her invitation to play tag during recess. That particular substitute looked like he was barely out of undergrad, if at all, and probably thought elementary school kids would be easy to deal with. When I told him about what had happened, he didn’t even flinch—and went on to tell me, “It’s okay. She was just asserting herself.”

This is for the former roommate who staunchly refused to let me use the microwave, which she had brought from her parents house, unless I wrote her parents a personalized thank you note. I had already expressed as much appreciation to her as any reasonable person—who you’d just recently met—would, and sought advice from friends on the best way to defy her absurd insistence. All of my friends told me I should just give in, because “this battle isn’t worth fighting.”

This is for the English teacher who explicitly told me that unless I followed her outlines to a tee, I wouldn’t get As or even Bs on my essays. I was still finding my voice as a writer, and hoped that I would be able to be imaginative with my words that year. Instead, I felt suffocated by my teacher, her flagrant abuse of authority stifling every sentence that I dared to write. After receiving more Cs and Ds than I’m willing to share, I vented my frustrations to my guidance counselor—and was told that I should give her a break, because she was new to teaching and was just “trying to set the best example for her students.”

These are the memories that “bossy” brings to mind—and they’re all negative. This isn’t about suppressing female leadership. This is about drawing the line between confidence and arrogance, about remembering that one of the hallmarks of leadership is being understanding of others.

To me, a young girl who exhibits great leadership skills isn’t the kind of girl who is labeled as bossy. A young girl who puts others down, threatens them, expects to get whatever she wants without any thought of compromise—she is the kind of girl I’d call bossy. Yes, it’s a negative term. But asking people to stop using it implies that it’s currently being used incorrectly, in a manner that is untrue or politically incorrect. The “Ban Bossy” video itself brings to mind similar vocabulary-policing campaigns around words like “retarded” and “that’s so gay”. The difference there is that there is no situation in which it is acceptable to call something “gay” or “retarded”—but calling someone bossy? There is still a time and place to use that word. It’s just a personality trait that rubs people the wrong way, and is probably indicative of room for improvement in the person being called “bossy”. 

Some of the existing backlash regarding “Ban Bossy” points out bossiness isn’t in fact so bad. Peggy Drexler’s op-ed for CNN goes as far as to argue that the focus of the campaign shouldn’t be to ban the word itself, but rather to shift its definition “to describe those very necessary qualities for those who lead.” Although “bossy” can sometimes be used to positively poke fun at leadership (see Tina Fey’s Bossypants), I disagree that the characteristics implied by the word should set an example for others to follow. Some people, like Jessica Roy at Time, don’t care if you call them “bossy”, but that doesn’t mean it’s something we should be striving for.

Regardless of one’s gender, the characteristics of a good leader do not include being bossy. A leader is someone who listens without overpowering, who persuades without insulting, who achieves without bragging. Merriam-Webster defines bossy as being “fond of giving orders; domineering.” There are indeed successful people out there whom this definition describes perfectly—but it isn’t a quality that modern leadership development wisdom tells us to strive for. 

That’s because being bossy is something that inherently is going to upset people.

You know what else upsets people? Being mean. But I don’t hear anyone trying to ban “mean”. The point here is that calling someone bossy is no better than calling them mean, but also that both “bossy” and “mean” are indicative of something that isn’t right. The “Ban Bossy” campaign attempts to persuade us that people who use the word “bossy” are punishing personality traits that are actually the nascent qualities of a leader. But even in our modern lexicon, positive leadership traits are not described by a negative word like “bossy”.

Okay, this rhetorical analysis is all well and good, but the semantics are only half the issue here—right? Wasn’t this video about young girls and turning them into leaders?

Of course it is—which is why all the feminists I know were so excited by it. And I don’t doubt that Sheryl Sandberg and all those who contributed to the video were well-intentioned—I, too, am passionate about leadership development among women. And I, too, agree that our society makes it harder for women to achieve the same kind of success in leadership as men. 

Yes, women do need to work harder, but exhibiting characteristics that might warrant the label of “bossy” is not the way to do so. As Cathy Young notes in her Real Clear Politics column, many of the facts about girls’ self-esteem and desire to be leaders displayed in the campaign video are baseless and easily disproven—in fact, she argues that the campaign is trying to create a problem to solve, and that its approach doesn’t constitute empowerment but rather “feminist malpractice.” I agree with Young—campaigns by women in powerful positions should center around fixing the inherent sexism that stalls the progress of women, and not around made-up problems that don’t address the real facts surrounding the gender gap. We should be fighting harmful sexist stereotypes like “just a secretary” and the “sassy black woman”, instead of a word that ostensibly has nothing to do with sexism.

Too often, being a leader is confused with being loud and aggressive; we forget that traditional stereotypes shouldn’t dictate what a leader looks like, male or female.

You don’t have to have an “alpha” or “type A” personality to be a good leader. You don’t have to be the loudest person in the room to get things done effectively. You don’t need to get everyone to like you or agree with you—but you should conduct yourself in a way that makes people respect you and your actions. These are the leadership lessons we should be teaching our youth, regardless of gender. 

And if someone does indeed call you “bossy”, there’s two lessons to be found in that as well: 

First, remember that we all should be striving to continuously improve. If someone thinks you’re being bossy, find the reason why. Perhaps calling you “bossy” isn’t the best way for someone else to show that they are displeased with something you are doing, but you can’t control their particular choice of words. You can only control your own actions, and taking into account the criticism of others allows us to become the best versions of ourselves. 

And what if being called “bossy” wasn’t warranted at all? Well, as popular wisdom will have us remember, “haters gonna hate.” As I mentioned above, a leader doesn’t get people to like her or him, but she or he does find a way to be respected. Treat everyone with kindness and respect, and ignore the people who bring you down. 

To Christiane Amanpour, Michelle Obama, Jennifer Garner, and all the other bossy-banners: telling the world to unnecessarily refine its vocabulary won’t turn our young girls—and boys—into leaders. But filling these girls and boys with kindness, positivity, and determination will bring more out of them than banning a word ever could. So stop banning bossy, and start asking for respect.

Oct. 29 2013

//edit: A version of this post was published in the February 2014 issue of TANA Patrika.

At some point in their college career, everyone should get out of their comfort zone. Take a semester off. Study abroad. Do a co-op. Hit pause without purpose. Get some “real world experience”. Just try something that’s not usually expected of a college student. It will shake up your entire world, but you will be better because of it.

Move to another state. On the other side of the country. Hell, while you’re at it, move to another country. Live with random people. Work with random people. Meet random people and make friends with random people. Get lost in a big city with these random people. Take spontaneous road trips with these random people. Speak broken sentences in a language you’ve only pretended to know with these random people. Throw a party with these random people and get into fights with these random people and find yourself among these random people.

It won’t all be easy. Putting yourself in a new place, among new people, doing new things will force you to take a long, hard look at yourself. Your beliefs and values will be challenged. People will ask you the kinds of judgmental questions you haven’t been asked since elementary school. The kids on the playground found an excuse in innocence, but the real world is full of ignorance. Everything that makes you different in this new setting will be made painstakingly clear.

Understand to empathize with those who question you. All these “different” people are really no different from you.

But don’t forget about the people you left behind, even if they forget about you. Especially if they forget about you. Because they’re in college, and you know what it’s like to be trapped inside that college bubble. People are going to not text you back. People are going to be too busy to Skype you, even when they promise you otherwise. People are going to move on since you aren’t around to make them stay. People will go ahead with their lives, because their lives don’t revolve around you. It seems obvious enough, but it’s a hard realization to swallow. And when you do finally force that fact down into your esophagus, your throat will hurt for days. You’ll feel constricted. You’ll lose your bearings.

But remember that they’re just like you. They’re trying to find themselves, too. And when you go back, they’ll be right where you left them–searching. Aren’t we all searching for the same thing?

I know, I know, it’s all so cliche. But if you just stick to the status quo, you’ll never feel that jolt. You’ll never really get hit in the face by the realization that your experiences and what you learn from them will be more important than anything else anyone tries to convince you of.

So try things you’ve never dared to try before. Take off for an entire weekend without telling anyone. Dye your hair. Pay an exorbitant amount of money for an ordinary meal, and pay next to nothing for extraordinary one. Visit old friends. Make new friends. Fall in love–with a person, with a place, with anything. Explore every little hidden treasure you can and let yourself take each opportunity for a great story that comes your way and make bad decisions just because you know you’ll learn something from them and etch it all in your brain forever and ever because once you go back–

Once you go back, this entire wealth of living that you’ve done, at least outwardly, becomes just another line or two of “experience” on your resume. People will ask you about this “experience”, and you will struggle to find the right words. Because if you do it right, you’ll find that not everything in this world is just for a resume, or just for a story, or just for a fun fact to be passed around during some all-too-common icebreaker game. Some things are simply for you to live through, to reflect upon, to look back on one day and smile.

So go. Go experience without seeking something in return. You’ll get something out of it–but probably not what you expect.

Jun. 16 2013

This past weekend I performed a Bollywood number at a wedding sangeet, after which several members of the audience stopped me to say I’d done a good job. One woman in particular asked, “Have you learned classical dance?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I learn bharatanatyam.”

Learn. Present tense, not past.

“Have you completed your arangetram?” I shook my head no.

“Oh.” She gestured to her preteen daughter. “Well that’s my dream for her.”

Oh. Well I’m sorry you determine the worth of a dancer by whether or not she’s done her arangetram.

—-

“Arangetram” is a Tamil word that means “to ascend the stage”, and is regarded as a debut performance for many Indian classical arts, including the bharatanatyam style of dance. After several years of training, when the teacher deems her ready, the dancer presents a 2 to 3-hour solo dance performance showcasing a full set of bharatanatyam repertoire with proficiency. It’s a daunting task—one that requires months of arduous practice and a lot of physical and mental stamina—and therefore is regarding as a very big accomplishment. 

However, the arangetram trend in America has overwhelmingly become just that—a trend. It’s considered fashionable to present an arangetram. Students who aren’t fully ready for their arangetrams, who possibly aren’t even interested in dance, do them anyway, as though it were a status symbol. Thousands of dollars are spent on hosting a lavish ceremony to celebrate a girl’s “graduation” from dance.

Pause right there. Graduation? An arangetram is meant to be a beginning, not an ending. And yet I can’t even count how many people I know who spend over a decade of their life dancing, spend endless hours preparing for their arangetram and spend so much money putting everything together—and then let it all out on the stage, never to return. The scenario is too familar: I’ll meet someone in college and tell them I do bharatanatyam. They’ll say, “Oh, me too!” I’ll put in a plug for Michigan Sahana, our Indian classical music and dance community on campus, and be met with, “Oh. I did my arangetram a few years ago but haven’t danced since.”

Then why’d you do your arangetram?

It’s possible you have some legitimate reason for no longer dancing—but even this benefit of the doubt is only valid assuming you had a really stellar arangetram. And even that’s not a fair assumption anymore. I’ve been to my share of arangetrams, and while I’ve seen some really really great ones, I’ve seen some very disappointing ones as well.

I’ve seen people dance like they’re being forced to do so, with every smile coming out like it’s a chore. I’ve seen varnams (which are supposed to the centerpiece of an arangetram and showcase a dancer’s stamina, and usually last 20-40 minutes) be shortened to only 7 minutes. I’ve heard of 12-year-olds unsuccessfully attempt to portray the virahotkanthita nayika (but can you really expect a 12-year-old to properly show a heroine in separation from her lover? I’m 20 and I’m not sure I could even show that). I’ve been in and out of a complete arangetram in less than 90 minutes—and you call that successful?

To be fair, I know plenty of truly dedicated, earnest dancers who have presented very memorable arangetrams and I’m honored to be able to dance with some of them on a regular basis. But this should be the norm. Dancers who finish their arangetrams should all be this passionate and dedicated—or else they shouldn’t do them at all.

The converse of this, however, isn’t true: all dancers who are passionate and dedicated needn’t have necessarily done their arangetrams. I have often been asked why I haven’t done mine, and I will usually respond with some condensed version of all of this. I honestly admire those who have set aside so much time and effort to present a proper arangetram, who have made dance a priority in their lives and who have continued to be students of dancing, always learning and always improving.

But I don’t see an arangetram as a prerequisite to any of the other qualities mentioned above. Especially when the word arangetram can be tossed around so lightly, when anyone can tell you they’ve done theirs and it reveals hardly anything about their abilities as a classical dancer—I don’t feel compelled to add my name to that list. I haven’t done my arangetram, and it’s possible I never will. But I will not stop being a student of bharatanatyam, and I will not stop pursuing something that I love.

Parents, don’t dream for your daughter (or son) to do her or his arangetram. Dream for them to be dedicated, passionate, lifelong dancers. And if they don’t want to dance, that’s fine too. Dream for them to find something, anything, that they love, and to pursue it wholeheartedly. That’s how I determine worth—not by arangetrams.

May. 14 2013

I hated The Great Gatsby when we read it in high school. Perhaps this was largely because it was high school, and I had an overwhelming tendency to hate anything I read for a class (if I even read it all in the first place). The word lover in me swelled with enthusiasm at each of F. Scott Fitzergerald’s beautiful, illustrious sentences that went on for miles and wound through so many worlds and meanings—but that wasn’t enough. The story itself was wholly lost on me.

It was all too much. The parties, the emotions, the overall flamboyance of everyone and everything was disgusting in its overindulgence. From Wilson to Myrtle to Tom to Daisy to Gatsby, I had to wonder how many diseases must have been passed along the chain. The irreverence to all sense of what was right was completely incomprehensible. And don’t even get me started on the “symbolism”. The way my English teacher broke it down, it seemed as though every single dialogue and object and hair color and name was indisputably a symbol for something that was predetermined and just masterfully concealed from the readers. Because Fitzgerald really just needed everything to mean something else and couldn’t let a single thing be the way it was… just because? Dr. T. J. Eckleburg, I’ve had it with you and your giant eyes.

But now, I realize I missed the point. The Roaring Twenties were actually that insane. That mental institution Baz Luhrmann takes us to in his first shot of Tobey Maguire in the latest film? They should have put the whole freaking decade in there. Maybe that’s what made Nick Carraway’s flashback story such a great framing device to the film: he was the last thing in the story that needed help. But secondhand smoke can kill too.

The book made me feel disillusioned. The 1974 movie made me feel disappointed. But the newest screen version turned it all around.

Jay-Z needs to produce more soundtracks. Seriously, I can’t get enough of this. While its perfect blend of hip-hop, electronic, and jazz influences make it appealing to a younger generation while still playing off of the 1920s, the soundtrack also makes a statement of its own where the story is concerned: there is incredible harmony in cacophony. This isn’t a music review, so I won’t break it down track by track, but all the diverse influences and styles and voices that come together in this soundtrack are anything but harmonious at first glance. Yet somehow, it all works.

And one look at one of Baz Luhrmann’s wild, colorful party setups shows this off brilliantly. (By the way, I can’t imagine anyone painting a better picture of the Jazz Age than the director of Moulin Rouge!. The man knows how to make the screen come alive.) People are drinking, dancing, debauching, singing, swimming, socializing, stumbling, doing everything at once that they shouldn’t even be doing at all. And still, it’s all beautiful. All the discordant behaviors of the 1920s made the decade what it was: immortally harmonious.

Leonardo DiCaprio’s smile is enough to make me melt, but the entire film was perfectly cast. While the 1974 version seemed to make the setting too dull, the characters themselves were unnecessarily over-the-top (Seriously, Mia Farrow, just shut up). I couldn’t imagine a more delicate Daisy than Carey Mulligan though, and even Tobey Maguire’s performance is the perfect combination of intelligent and overwhelmed. My own wish was that Jordan Baker had been given a larger role—she was my favorite character in the book (well, she was the only one I liked at all) and newcomer Elizabeth Debicki seemed promising. And who couldn’t resist seeing pops of Isla Fisher and even Amitabh Bachchan on the screen?

Bravo, Baz Luhrmann. You brought that frenzy of the twenties to the big screen like never before and made a believer in the beauty of it all. Every shot was so well-thought out and impeccably executed—and the perfection of it all is blinding, just as that decade must have felt to those living in it.

Hey,would you look at that! The hater of symbolism has now reveled in finding all her own hidden meanings. I guess I’m a hypocrite after all—but hey, so is everyone in that story. And that’s what makes it all work. Thank you, Baz Luhrmann and everyone else involved, for making me finally appreciate The Great Gatsby for what it is: a story about living in the past and hoping for the future, all while we remain blind to the insanity of our present. It’s all so excessive, and still it’s just enough.

Dec. 31 2012

Imagine a world where any situation can be eased with a song crooned by a scantily-clad woman, a world where no love story is ever left with unresolved tension, a world where every man has the physical prowess to beat up all the bad guys and every woman is gifted with extraordinary beauty and dancing talent.

It sounds impossible, but it’s a world I’ve always grown up knowing. It’s the world that convinced me that I could never dance as well as Madhuri Dixit could, I should never try to pull off a unibrow the way Kajol could, I would never know anyone as eager to rip off their shirt as Salman Khan was, and I would never see as many girls swoon at anyone as would at Hrithik Roshan. But perhaps most prominently, it’s the world where true love, without fail, always wins. It’s the unrealistic, infectious world of Bollywood. 

Unfortunately, after nearly two decades, Bollywood starts getting less exciting. Instead of sitting on the edge of my seat, frantically wondering if Raj will be able to win over Simran’s dad and marry her (DDLJ), or if Nisha’s love for Prem will be revealed before she has to marry his widowed brother (HAHK), or if the Raichands will take back Rahul as their own son even though he married Anjali against their wishes (K3G)… my curiosity has been replaced with cynicism. Over the course of Bollywood’s rich and colorful history, the norms have been firmly established. Hero + heroine = love. Love + disapproving parents = fighting. Love + fighting = winning + marriage. Murders are always avenged, familial distrust is always won over, and one’s first true love is always upheld. No matter what the situation is, the framework doesn’t change. 

It’s become a game lately, at my house, to predict the outcomes of Bollywood films. We’ll watch a few minutes near the beginning, call the outcome, and come back later to check if we were correct. If we’re feeling particularly lazy, we might just pull up Wikipedia instead and scan through the plot summary until we find the obligatory formula ending. Sometimes, we won’t even bother checking. There’s no way the good guy won’t kill the bad guy, or the guy won’t win over the girl’s parents, or the girl won’t marry the first guy she fell in love with. So last night, after the first fifteen minutes of watching Ek Main Aur Ekk Tu, I laid out my prediction:

“It’s like on Friends, when Ross and Rachel accidentally get drunkenly married in Vegas. So obviously they have to annul their marriage, but in the process Kareena Kapoor and Imran Khan end up becoming friends. And then they’re going to actually fall for each other, and end up getting married for real.”

As I kept watching, everything seemed to be following suit. There were, of course, a few minor complications and an obligatory song-and-dance item along the way, but the general setup was enough for me to keep watching. About ninety minutes in, I updated my prophecy:

“So Imran Khan has told Kareena Kapoor that he’s in love with her, but she says she doesn’t think of him as more than just a friend. It’s Bollywood after all, so there’s got to be at least another hour to go. The rest of the movie will be him making her fall in love with him, and then they’ll finally get married.”

To my shock, the credits start rolling shortly after this announcement. I won’t give away the ending, but it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. After so many years of becoming accustomed to Bollywood formulas, I initially felt a bit empty. This wasn’t how the movie was supposed to end. Where were all the usual sentiments? Where was the perfect “movie” wedding at the end oops, spoiler? I never got these wrong!

But soon after, I realized my defeat was something, in fact, to be proud of. Ek Main Aur Ekk Tu challenged the Bollywood love story formula, and suddenly the film felt infinitely more realistic. Take out the unavoidable masala needed to sell a Bollywood film, and we’re left with a simple, all-too-relatable story about a guy and a girl. After a week and a half of watching mostly predictable (albeit entertaining) Hindi films that always succumbed to usual Indian sentiments of love, this was refreshing.

Over the past few years, it’s been exciting to see Bollywood films that aren’t so love-centric, or perhaps approach love from a more modern perspective. Instead of classic epic romances, we see broken families, long-distance relationships, and other concessions to the realities of the 21st century. And such modern adaptations are necessary to keep things current, to keep pulling hoards of fans into theaters and to keep the industry alive and thriving. But do the same old established formulas still need to be obeyed?

Some people say movies shouldn’t be realistic, because after all, they’re an escape from reality. And I’ll be the first to admit that if Kuch Kuch Hota Hai is on TV, I’ll drop everything and sit through all 3 hours of the glitzy, gooey, melodramatic formula love story. But it wouldn’t hurt to occasionally find something a little more realistic. And for that, I have to give props to Ek Main Aur Ekk Tu. It was by no means the best Bollywood movie I’ve seen, and quite honestly wasn’t as captivating as many of the old classics—but it broke the expected formula and left me thinking, “Hey, that actually happens in real life.” And perhaps finally, Bollywood and reality are no longer worlds apart.

Sep. 14 2012

I woke up around 8am today to a text sent at 3:19am. It read, “Free for lunch tomorrow?”

Now, in most places it is perfectly reasonable to assume that since the text was sent today, September 14th, tomorrow would mean Saturday, September 15th. But college, of course, is far from reasonable. I’m aware that Saturday is a game day, and few students would want to make lunch plans before the game. So it’s probably safe to say that tomorrow really means today.

Good morning, America. It’s tomorrow.

Traditionally days end and begin when the date changes. A text sent at 11pm would be from yesterday, a text at 3am from today. But what about the idea that the day doesn’t end until we sleep? I think the latter holds true for most college students. That’s why we say things like “I went to bed at 2am last night.” 2am was this morning, not last night, but our day yesterday didn’t end until that point.

As our time scale shifts, our biological clocks get a little messed up. We do too many things during the day, and stay up too late at night (and into the morning). The college perception of time is vastly out of sync with time in the real world. But college also puts us in this bubble where we tend to forget about the real world, and focus only on what’s happening immediately around us. And immediately around us, most people won’t be ending tonight until tomorrow.

The problem with the text above, taken in a college view, isn’t necessarily that it was sent in the wee hours of September 14th. It’s that it was sent by someone whose yesterday hadn’t yet ended, and was received later by someone whose today had just begun. Quick fix: specify the day of the week when you attempt to talk about “tomorrow” after midnight.

In any case, musing on the perception of time doesn’t, in reality, slow it down. Besides, I might after all have a lunch appointment in a few hours. 

Or not. It might be tomorrow.

Aug. 22 2012

I woke up yesterday feeling well-rested, but somehow uneasy. It was almost noon and I had every reason to be happy after a good night’s sleep, except for the strange feeling in my stomach. Then I stumbled upon the cause: there was music playing downstairs, but not just any music. It was–dare I say it–Khamas ragam.

I’ll finally admit it: I have an irrational fear of Khamas. Upon hearing any rendering of it, I feel chills down my spine and suddenly recall images of demonic possession, gibberish languages, and a crucifix placed where it certainly should not be. Sound familiar? These haunting images are from The Exorcist, one of the most disturbing horror stories of the last century.

I know, it’s completely irrational. Why would a purportedly beautiful ragam reminded me of The Exorcist?

I’ve never seen the movie, but I was given a very tattered copy of the original book when I was around thirteen. I’m told the movie is nowhere near as chilling or graphic as the book, and I can assure you it was not a book for a thirteen-year-old to be reading. But being the precocious thirteen-year-old I was, I thought I could handle it. Needless to say, I couldn’t sleep for weeks.

But something else happened to me around the time I was first reading The Exorcist. I was learning the krithi Brochevarevarura in Khamas. Many days, I would go from reading, to singing, to reading again. This went on for weeks, until I finally finished both the book and the song around the same time–and by that point, the two pieces had become inexplicably connected in my head. The song would bring back memories of the book any time I heard it, and nothing I did could shake the creepy-crawly feeling it produced all over.