Dedicated to TrueSong & PureDance,
inseparable, ever more.
This is an original work by
Lam Ghooi Ket
Friday, 7th December 2007
Sharan Kailash is the nom de plume
of Lam Ghooi Ket
SCENE: The year is 1868. We are in the cosy chamber of a devadasi. This chamber once belonged to her mother, a devadasi who has since passed away, and is now given to her. It is one of a few living chambers in an annexe to the temple – one dedicated to Lord Shiva. A bright colour door hanging, facing the audience, but off center upstage indicates the entrance to the room. The hanging is tied to one side of the entrance. It is a simple room, with hardly any furniture. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that it looks poor, but the paraphernalia in it create a feeling of warmth and belonging, and frugal beauty.
Downstage right is a wooden chest, on which are placed some folded saris and shawls. Next to this is a low table, a dressing table of sorts, with some articles necessary for a woman to perform her daily routine. Under the table, two straw baskets are arranged side by side. An antique hand mirror can be seen. This is made of burnished brass. A small oil lamp is set on this table and it is lit. Next to this is another much larger lamp with a thicker wick but not lit. On the floor, in front of this table is a rug placed on a much larger straw mat.
Downstage left, set on a box, is a small one-foot high statue of the dancing god Shiva Nataraja. At his feet are small articles used for puja; on a tray, two bananas on some sireh leaves, little containers of ash, water, and kumkum, incense sticks burning halfway, and a small oil lamp, lit. At the beginning of the scene, the only light in this room will come from the two small lamps. Their glow however allows us to fairly make out the sparseness of the room.
We hear the sound of ankle bells. The devadasi enters through the door. She is richly attired to perform. As she enters, she stops and looks back.
Vasundhara: Yes? [She turns to listen] I know. Yes. I’ll change quickly. [She comes into the room. A bare-bodied man in a dhoti comes into view at the entrance but he doesn’t come in.]
Man: He is a good man, and obviously very generous…
[She removes the shawl from her shoulders and throws it onto the chest.] You can see that… [And he leaves.]
[She sits down, and begins to remove her dancing bells. These she puts on the floor in front of the chest.]
Vasundhara: [to herself]: “obviously generous…” yes, I can see that…
[She moves closer to her dressing table, pours herself some water from an earthen decanter, drinks, and then begins to dab her face with a hand cloth from the table. Slightly out of breath when she came in, she now takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She is calm and happy. Then she remembers something about her performance. She strikes a pose, and begins to sing, gesturing, showing us some of her favourite moments in the dance. At an emotionally intense moment, she stops. She begins to remove the ornaments in her hair. She picks up the hand mirror and inspects her makeup. Dabbing her face around her eyes, she notices that some touching up is required. She does so. Then she sees something in her mirror.]
“I have lost my youth and my beauty… it’s in the eyes… the little lines that creep up from nowhere to stay just under the eyes. And the lines that quietly reside near the corners of the mouth. At first, a bit of make up and powder will hide them… but not for long. Like everything else, youth and beauty will also fade… just that in a woman like me, they go much faster.
Beauty is like a butterfly – intense but short-lived. You can see that I was beautiful once. Can’t you? Now I should describe myself as “mature and graceful”. [She laughs.] Really, this is cheap consolation for someone who has known what it is like to be admired and adored. When I was younger… well, that wasn’t too long ago… I was adored, adored by princes… I was the toast of the town… I was so beautiful when I danced every man lost his heart to me, watching me. [She pauses, struggling.] No, it was not like that… I was watched… with some interest but not adored. I only wish I was. There were some who desired me but there was none who adored me. [She says this with some vehemence, as if remembering past injustices.] If there were, it wouldn’t have been the way I wanted it to be. They wanted the glamour and the colours, they wanted the body and the beauty, they wanted the breath and the pulse that give magic to the eyes and the smile, that made the body supple and alluring… to taste, and then to discard. Not to cherish. Not to treasure…
[Pause. She gazes at the Siva Nataraja statue. The light changes.]
There was a time when we were cherished and treasured; when we were gazed upon with admiration and respect. And if one of us were truly beautiful and could dance and sing divinely for the Lord and his devotees, we were revered. At the evening puja, we offered our dance to the Lord in the inner sanctum, for his enjoyment. At festivals, gifts of garlands decorated our shoulders, flower petals thrown at our feet when we performed at the nata mandap, the dance hall. Our shimmering beauty gave joy to ardent worshippers. We were the heavenly celestials come down to earth. We were a delight to behold when we followed the Lord on his yatra, his procession, his pilgrimage through the city streets. Devadasis: handmaidens of the gods. [She says this with pride, some defiance, her chin up.] Not “nautch”. Not dancing courtesans. Yes, even then, we were adored and desired, by those who desired the grace of the Lord.
But we were unattainable, incorruptible. We were part of the ideal that devotees yearned for. Their souls would reach out for the glorious, magical flame within us. We had it in us. By our constant adoration of the Lord, He gave us this: the beauty and power to capture the minds of worshippers. For by the grace of the Lord, we had the beauty and the power to hold the mind of the Lord. Our purpose – our breath, our song, our dance, our life – was to please Him.
His game was to have us at His side, and then, one day, on a full moon day, He would embrace us into His all knowing forever nothingness…
Nothingness. I wonder what that feels like, there… no body, no mind, no sight, no sound, no thoughts, no feelings. No pain. Nothing. Or will I be looking into His eyes of endless love… conscious of the secret gentle smile on His lips, the secret to eternity, meant only for me… my heart beating… fast… like the wings of a butterfly… a butterfly drunk on the nectarine bliss of his love…
[THE DANCER]
[She smiles and closes her eyes, giving herself over to the long nurtured fantasy. She begins to sing again the song, moving through the gestures as before… and just as before, she is unable to continue… and she struggles.]
Vasundhara: My mother taught me this song when I was barely twelve… when I had just attained age. I remember. “Watch me carefully now, Vasundhara, and learn this,” she said. “This is a gift. Learn it so well that you can sing it in your sleep… and fill your heart, your hands and feet with the dance like there is nothing else… Do that, and it will be the greatest gift you have ever received from me.”
I remember. She was a strict teacher. I was young. There were many things I couldn’t understand. And when she had to repeat herself many times, she became impatient, her eyes wide with anger and frustration, “You stupid wretch! Are you blind or what? Why do you keep on making that wrong step? Move that leg! Are you a cripple? Shall I break your leg? Use your head!”
She was a beautiful woman, full of charming smiles and alluring elegance, but I was afraid of her. She had so much power in her. Whenever she sang and danced, she made everything come alive. Her lovelorn nayika, separated from the Lord, would alternate between joy and sadness, laughter and tears. [She sings a lyric, catches the moment, savours it.]
When she brought on the Devi in the form of the three-breasted Meenakshi, I could see so clearly how the goddess felt when she realized it was the Lord Shiva Sundareshvara who stood in front of her. [She sings another song, dances, and recreates that luminous moment.]
Once I saw her invoke the goddess Kali, eyes bulging, fearsome, with tongue sticking out. [Again, she reveals yet another magical moment, awe inspiring pose, and holds it.]
I loved that because it would send shivers down my spine. But she always told me that she preferred not to perform the dance of Kali Ma, not during festivals where it could be seen by everyone…
She felt that the sweeter, gentler lovelorn maiden pining for the Lord had more appeal. It was more in tune with her own character, she said.
One evening, when I was about fourteen, I was waiting in her room, this room, for her to finish her dance to help her change. I must have dozed off. I vaguely heard the tinkling of ankle bells. A good strong kick in my behind woke me up!
Parvathiammal: “You are sleeping! You, lazy, good-for-nothing, get up! Sleeping! I told you to wait for me so you can help me change quickly… I have to be ready in ten minutes and you are sleeping. What a useless girl you are! Where’s my tea? Did you make my tea? Where is it? Bring it here. Shiva! Shiva! You just don’t care, do you? For all that I have done for you… hurry up and take out my ornaments… for all that I have done for you, you have become an ungrateful lazy wretch. I feed you; give you a place here, teach you how to sing and dance… and you sleep. I am looking after you. Is it too much for you to look after me a little? Useless! You are useless! All of you are useless!”
Vasundhara: “I’m sorry, Ma.”
Parvathiammal: “Don’t call me Ma. I am not your mother, you ungrateful idiot. I am not a mother! I am nobody’s mother! I have been cheated, cheated by all of you who just want to take from me. I am just a fool, a stupid fool.” [She breaks down into tears.] “I gave one of my rings to that greedy, dishonest son of a cursed weaver so that he would bring Subramania to see me dance but he didn’t. I was all set to dance for Subramania but he didn’t come. Instead that stupid Selva brought some low life, betel-chewing shopkeeper to ogle and salivate over me while I danced. I have been cheated….. Wait, one day I will get my own back. [She pauses.] If only Subramania had come. He would have seen me dance. I would have danced for him… [Spent of her anger, she becomes resigned, tired.] It’s all right, you don’t have to do my hair again. I am not going out. I am so tired now… take off my dancing bells…”
Vasundhara: I took off her salangai and massaged her feet a bit while she sipped her tea. Then I removed all her dance ornaments slowly, piece by piece. I combed out her long hair, her very long hair – she liked me to do that – and as I did that, she gave a sigh. I saw that there were tears in her eyes. She saw me looking at her, and she closed her eyes. I felt my mother’s sadness… but I did not understand where it came from.
There was a bit of warm rice, dhall and vegetables I was to eat after she had gone. “Ma, here’s some food.” She opened her eyes and gazed steadily at me. “I’ll feed you, Ma.” And with my own hand I fed her. After two mouthfuls, she took the tiffin box from me, and then she fed me.
“Tomorrow I will teach you a new song. I will teach you Theruvil Vaaraano,” she said as she gave me the last bit of our shared dinner. “Then we’ll see… we will see.”
[THE DAUGHTER]
Vasundhara: My mother’s name was Parvathi Sundaramurti, most admired among the dasis of our city. I came to her when I was barely ten years old. [There is a long pause.] I… My own appa and amma, they came from the small village of Thirukoyillur… three days journey by bullock from here. Ramasamy and Kamalambal… they were very poor, just farm hands, with many mouths to feed… Lakshmi, they called me… their eldest daughter. As I said, I came to my mother Parvathi when I was barely ten. I was to stay with a good and fair lady, I was told. I would be given food, a good place to stay, and in return, I would learn how to sing and dance.
In the bullock cart, on the way here, I asked my appa how long I would be staying here.
“Until you finish learning, Lakshmi,” he said. “When will that be, appa?” Panic clutched my throat.
I felt my amma squeeze my hand. “Don’t worry your silly little head, Lakshmi. She is a good lady you are going to, and she will look after you. You will get to eat every day. You will wear nice clothes. You will sing, and learn to dance. You have to be obedient, and work hard, or you will be scolded. Nobody likes a lazy child. Remember that.” Then she held me close and whispered into my ear: “Very soon, amma will come and fetch you… and you can show us how you can sing and dance. You will be better off than all of us, kutti.”
I felt better, lighter, and began to imagine eating heartily, wearing new clothes, playing happily with my brothers and sisters. [There is a long pause as she keeps her eyes looking down on the floor, and we see the mists of memory pass over her face. As she looks up, we catch a flash of pain and just as quickly, a veil comes over her eyes.] That was twenty years ago.
I was hungry and tired when we arrived. “Lakshmi, the lady is coming,” my amma pinched my arm… and there she was – the most beautiful lady I have ever set eyes on. Her eyes were lined with black kajal, her hair was shiny and long, dressed with flowers. She wore earrings of green gemstones, she had three gold chains, one with a pendant of purple stone set against small bright red stones like a flower. And her bangles, they clinked softly on her wrists, all matching the many rings on her fingers. They sparkled in the sun. Her sari shone dark green and red. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. But my father dared not look. He kept his head down, with his two hands clasped in front of him. My amma was looking at me with tears in her eyes.
“How old is she, this girl?”
“She is only ten, ma…” my appa mumbled.
“Come here…” and without any hesitation I went to her, unable to resist the command in her voice, and she began to look at my face and then she studied my arms, my hands, my legs, my hair. She didn’t touch me though. “Hmm… she looks alright. I am sure she will be very happy here.” So saying, she handed a cloth bundle to my appa – it clinked softly - who immediately clasped it close to his chest. There was a look of relief on his face. And then, he did the strangest thing – he quickly turned and walked straight to the bullock cart. My amma followed him, and got in after him. A cry was stuck in my throat. They were leaving me behind. Appa turned his face away, and as the bullock cart moved away, I began to cry, trying hard not to make any noise in front of this grand lady. Then I saw my amma raise her hand a little, gave me a sad glance, as they blurred into the distance through the mist of my tears.
[Pause.]
“Now what is your name, child?” she smiled down at me.
“Lakshmi,” I said.
“No, you are Vasundhara.”
“My name is Lakshmi.”
“From now on, I am your mother, and you shall be Vasundhara… come with me now, and I will give you some food. Have you eaten anything? I have cooked up a feast for you.”
I followed her through a hall of cool, stone pillars, the granite floor sturdy and cold – a soothing contrast to the hot, soft, sunbaked sand under my feet outside – and I remember her silk sari rustling softly with the quick steps she took, her ankle bells tinkling whispering in the quiet of the afternoon. We came into her living room, and there she fed me: my first, big, delicious hot meal of rice, sambhar, resam, pappaddam and pickles in three days. There was payasam, sweet and thick, after… I had never eaten like that before. Then I thought of my appa and amma, and my little brothers and sisters who were not there with me, who would have wolfed everything down – ravenously – and I felt empty inside despite my full stomach.
[She gets up, goes behind a wooden screen to change her dress. There is soft music – a song by Annamacharya. We hear the sound of bangles, and she appears, now in a shimmering silk skirt of gold and gauze. Her mood has changed. She is smiling and vivacious, turning this way and that holding her mirror.]
[THE DEVADASI]
Vasundhara: My mother said, after the very day I was presented – it was Vijayadasami – that I should always be seen “dressed to kill”. “You must always make your entrance believing that you are the goddess herself,” she said. I was sixteen.
Parvathiammal: “For now, you have the power to invoke the gods through your dance; your song will lull the minds of those who hear you, transporting them to a place they can never find on their own, and your dance will give them shining visions of divine beauty they will never forget. You must never appear in front of others unadorned.”
Vasundhara: She had taught me well. She taught me everything I knew. From the rhythm of my stamping feet and the graceful gestures of my hands to the captivating stories I would tell with my eyes and my lips, she taught me that which can be seen and also that which cannot be seen.
For six years, I learned how to sing and dance everyday, except for festivals and holidays, or whenever she felt ill. For six years, I learned the songs just as I would have to learn to keep her house, help her cook, dress her for her performances. I was her student, her servant, her daughter. That Vijayadasami day, when everything was over, and mother was flushed with pride telling me how I was her crowning glory, I wished my amma had come.
You see, for six years, there had been no letters. They wouldn’t have written anything on their own but they could have asked someone to pen a few thoughts down. They never came. At that time, I remembered what my appa had said about my returning home when I had finished learning. But in my heart I knew. And knowing, a door inside me closed. A room I hadn’t entered for a long, long time, its inside veiled from me only by a gauzy curtain through which I could occasionally catch glimpses of childhood memories, of sun-filled days, bathing by the river with my brothers and sisters, now was just a dark door. Closed and unhearing.
Parvathiammal: “Vasundhara, my child, my darling, now all my dreams will be fulfilled,” my mother cried with delight as she tugged at the ornaments in my hair. “The news of your debut tonight will spread like wild fire: Parvathiammal’s daughter, Vasundhara, has no rival! In song, her voice is like the nightingale! In rhythm, she would put Nandi to shame! In dance, Indra’s celestial dancers would be struck with both pride and envy! The gods would watch her in amazement. Vasundhara! And in a few days, by my calculations, two days from tomorrow, a messenger will come from the prince.”
Vasundhara: And sure enough, he did come.
“Amma! God’s blessings on you! I bring you a most wonderful message from the prince.” He was a tall and elegant man, with a huge, well-trimmed, well-coiffed moustache. He was dressed in silk from head to toe. His kohl-lined eyes were bright with excitement, and his ever smiling lips were stained with red betel juice.
Parvathiammal: “O Shiva! Shiva! What a surprise! A message from the prince…? And you, Krishnaayya, have brought it to me? Who would have imagined, after all these years! O dear, I am quite breathless. And pardon me for not being a good host, for I am just too excited to let you even sit down. Is the message for me? Has the prince sent for me?”
Krishnaayya: “It’s been a long time, Parvathiammal. The message is for you, and you know that the message is not about you.”
Parvathiammal: “Oh! How curious! I wonder what that may be.”
Krishnaayya: “Parvathiammal, dasi of unparalleled devotion and beauty, the autumn moon that shines eternal in the minds of great lovers of art and poetry, sister to the ever auspicious goddess Kaveri, if you will deign to invite me to a seat and offer me some delicious water to quench my thirst on this hot, hot day, I will be your devoted servant, and in a thrice, quickly acquaint you with the purpose of my visit.”
Parvathiammal: “Ever the flattering one, O Krishnaayya, how long it has been since I last heard your voice pronounce those words that lift my soul into joy. You shall sit, my dear friend, and my daughter, will fetch you water, tea, and sweetmeats. You will catch your breath and, at your leisure, though I can hardly contain my excitement to hear what I already know you will say, at your leisure and pleasure, reveal to me this wonderful message from the prince. Vasundhara…”
Krishnaayya: “Vasundhara…”
Parvathiammal: “Vasundhara.”
Vasundhara: I had never seen my mother this happy. She laughed like the bubbles were bursting from inside her, coming from her heart, out of her mouth filling the afternoon with the memory of past joys. She became young again, beautiful, and full of life. I became happy too, and giggled. And then, I saw him smiling at me.
Krishnaayya: “She must be presented to the prince at the next purnima, the full moon day a week from now. And you, Parvathiammal, should spare no expense to prepare this sweet little thing. As divinity would have it, the praises of her debut have reached the prince’s ears, and so he must surely have a vision of this beautiful bloom.”
Vasundhara: And so saying, Krishnaayya put a gold ring and two gold bangles into my mother’s hands and, giving me a glance, he left.
“Your future is secured, Vasundhara,” my mother said, holding the gold ornaments close to her. “Now, we will see better days.”
For the next few days, my mother picked on the way I walked, the way I held my head. She looked at every fastidious detail about me – my hair, my face, my hands, my fingers, my teeth, the way I drew my eyes. Every second day, she would oil my hair with herbal oil she had made herself. In the afternoons, she would slather me with paste of manjal and chandanam, and when these were washed off, she would wipe me with a cloth soaked with curd. After a short nap, she would ask me to sing and dance. Here she would correct me – giving me new ways to sing a song, to express the meaning of the lyrics.
“Softer, softer,” she would say, “linger on that look in your eyes… now walk away three steps and then look back all of a sudden… yes, that’s it, my darling.”
She said I should sing “Pashiati disi disi” for the prince because it was the best choice for me. I would have loved to sing the piece by Saint Tyagaraja dedicated to Lord Rama – it was my favourite. Looking back, I realize what she meant about this song she wanted me to sing…
As the day of the visit drew nearer, I became curious about the prince.
Vasundhara: “What is the prince like, mother? Will I like him?”
Parvathiammal: “O, you will more than like him, my dear. He is a prince! I remember when he called for me… It is the greatest honour to be invited to the palace, Vasundhara.”
Vasundhara: “Is he very old?”
Parvathiammal: “Hush! What a question! What is youth compared to wisdom, compassion, kindness, generosity? What is fire next to gentility? What can compare with a heart that appreciates your soul and a hand that reaches out to nurture it? The day has come for you to fulfill your destiny – your destiny that brought you away from your impoverished childhood to me, your true mother who now has prepared you for the moment that will transform you and our lives into something greater, far more luminous than you can ever imagine.”
Vasundhara: She spoke of a world I couldn’t see but I was carried away by the desire in her voice. Was it akin to the divine world of my songs, a world inhabited by pure and chaste maidens longing for the Lord’s grace? It didn’t seem so.
[The lights dim out slowly as she exits. A flute plays as house lights fade up to announce a short interval.]
[DESPAIR]
[The flute plays, continuing from the previous tune, as house lights fade down to announce the second half. Vasundhara enters, singing Tyagaraja’s kriti, “nannu palimpa” and does abhinaya for this. It is a piece of deep gratitude and devotion for Lord Rama. More obviously, it reveals her yearning for the Lord, wishing what the saint composer had experienced would be given to her, too.]
Vasundhara: It is believed that the saint Tyagaraja saw Lord Rama walking towards him, accompanied by Lady Sita, the brave Lakshmana and the marvelous dasa of all dasas, the great Hanuman. That saintly person was a miracle, surely a divine one, to be able to live a life of absolute devotion to music and to divinity. He attained Samadhi when I was ten, the year I came here but of course, I knew nothing of him then. My mother taught me this song, and I have heard others sing it whenever we went for kutcheris.
Saint Tyagaraja was a marvelous composer. He was invited by the king to be court musician. But he refused. What was the point of worldly wealth when he already had the greatest of treasures. He sang “nidhi chala sukhama” in response and refusal. Does wealth bring happiness? Singing the Lord’s name gave him real happiness, joy for his soul. I wonder what that feels like. His elder brother, angered by his foolishness, it seems, threw away the vigraham idols of his beloved Lord Rama and Lady Sita. He suffered deeply for a long time for it meant he could not perform his daily worship for Lord Rama, his beloved. Then one day, miracle of miracles, he saw the Lord coming to him, walking, accompanied by lovely Mother Sita, Lakshmana, and the admirable Hanuman. This was when he burst into heart melting gratitude: “nannu palimpa…”
Will the Lord ever appear to me this way in this life? [She looks down, thinking her own life in no way merits any consideration from Divinity.] How will I ever be blessed this way? I am only looking at men. I see only men – rich ones, arrogant ones, brutish ones, stealthy ones, old ones… princely ones… [She pauses.]
That day, I was sent to the palace… to the prince. Krishnaayya smirked as I stepped out of the sedan chair.
Krishnaayya: “You have come, Vasundhara. The prince awaits you.”
[The light begins to change – getting dimmer. She begins to move upstage as if walking along a corridor.]
Vasundhara: I followed him into the dim corridors of the cold, quiet palace, the sound from my bangles and anklets echoing softly around me. He paused in front of a huge ornate door, inlaid with gold work, and turned to me, with one hand on the golden doorknob, “I hope you have prepared yourself for the prince’s pleasure…”
My heart was pounding as he pushed open the door.
[The light changes quickly – brightening as she rushes downstage and faces the audience.]
My mother was mad with excitement, her eyes bright with tears when I reached home.
Parvathiammal: “Vasundhara, tell me, tell me. Tell me everything. How was it? Did the prince treat you well? How were you received? Did you sing for him? Did you dance for him?”
Vasundhara: I looked down, trying to hide my sense of failure.
Parvathiammal: “Don’t be shy, my darling child!”
[The light dims as she moves up stage.]
Vasundhara: How was I to put in words that the prince did nothing? In fact, he was sick and bedridden, weak from the disease of old age. In that darkened room, I sang the song my mother had practiced with me for days, and began to dance, but all I could hear was his raspy, slow breathing.
I could not go on. It was the smell of musty, damp, unwashed clothes mingled with camphor and rose incense. Then a coldness that seemed to have come from his every rattling breath, crept over me. Suddenly, I was grabbed from behind; breathless, a scream stuck in my throat. Then I felt his hot breath on my ear. I turned around to see a huge moustache, and eyes gleaming with desire.
[As she rushes downstage, it brightens.]
Vasundhara: “Krishnaayya lied, he lied to you, mother!”
Parvathiammal: “Did the prince not see you dance? Did he not hear your song?”
Vasundhara: I shook my head. Then she grabbed my arm hard.
Parvathiammal: “Did he give you anything? Did he promise you that he would take care of me…? What have you done, Vasundhara? This was our only chance, our only hope!”
Vasundhara: And as she said all this, she searched my wrists, fingers, arms, neck, hair, face, and dress, looking, looking to see if I had hidden any gift from him.
“Krishnaayya lied, mother!”
I saw her hopes dashed against my surging anger; her dreams, built on vain imaginings, crumbling from her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks; her mouth, always perked up in a vermilion smile, now melting, trembling against her pale face. And in me, the disgust of being taken unwillingly rushed up hot and cold.
I ran. Not able to look at the despair in her eyes. Nor take the pain that came out of her lips, filling me with guilt, telling me that I have failed her. She, who gave me a new life, taught me things I would never have known. I ran out of the house but as I reached the threshold, there was a muffled cry behind me. I turned back. A spasm of fear gripped my throat.
I found her on the floor in a heap, moaning. She had swooned and hit her head. I cradled her in my arms, wondering why this had to happen. And then, it was with great difficulty that I carried her and laid her down on her bed. It took her many days before she could speak. Each time, it was just tears oozing like pearls from her eyes – as if she was giving up the treasures of her dreams. And perhaps, I was there to collect these.
One day, after giving her a few morsels of food, she held my hand. Hers was cold and frail. Smiling at me, she whispered, “Vasundhara, keep dancing…”
Could I have done anything else? The beautiful things she had told me about being a devadasi in a bygone era, that time of innocence and delight, dancing only for the gods, drinking from the fountain of joy that would spring from having offered our heart, body, mind and soul to divinity, filling our heart with faith inducing devotion. That was all I had, to go on hoping, to go on living. Had I known anything else?
[DELIGHT]
Vasundhara: Very quickly, I found myself the new mistress, which just meant that I was to have more on my shoulders. Then something wonderful happened on Shivaratri night. I was set to perform at the temple in front of an audience that night. It was not my best. I had ascended the stage with a heavy heart, my mind deeply anxious about my mother’s failing health, and my body burdened with exhaustion from taking care of her. She had become more and more frail, wasting away; her spirit, once so strong and alluring, had slipped away. It must have been my worst performance.
[Music begins to fill the air, and she begins to sing the very first song at the beginning of the play. This time, instead of stopping, she sings it through, revealing to us the profound experience she had at that performance – a vision of the Lord! Suffused with radiant happiness, like recognizing a long sought after lover, she gazes in silent wonder ahead of her, unable to speak for a few moments, her lips moving but soundless, and her breathing is held. Then, with a quiet gasp, she seems to come out of her reverie, as if her vision is fading, and almost immediately she appears to catch sight of someone in front of her… a different but just as intense experience…]
And there he was, my beloved lord in the flesh. My lord, whose eyes, lotus petal-like, could fill the very depths of my being. He was sitting there looking at me, gazing into my soul. Then he smiled at me, a smile that told me that he had always known me, and I, him.
He was there at all my performances; at festivals held within the temple walls, at court, at sabhas, at public gatherings in the open air, by the riverbank… always just two rows from the stage. And I danced like I had never danced before. I felt that my dancing had truth then – my spirit soared much further, plunged much deeper into the music and the song because at last, I had someone who would listen to my heart. But immediately after each performance, he would be gone.
After a while, I resorted to stealing a peek from backstage to see if he had come, and near the end of each performance, I would dread retreating into the wings, because I knew I would be performing the mangalam to his empty chair.
So desperately was my heart lost to him, that once, just before the varnam, I sent him a note asking him to stay till the end. I did not even know his name, mindful of gossipers if I had made enquiries. My heart sank when I came back on stage for the mangalam – his chair was empty.
I didn’t hear the applause. I didn’t hear the cheers. I only heard my name like a distant echo marred by a lot of noise. Oblivious to congratulations, vaguely seeing the leering smiles, careless of the useless notes of proposals pressed stealthily into my hands, I turned away into myself, and hurried into the dressing room, hardly able to hide my tears of disappointment.
And there he stood, waiting for me.
Venkataraman: “You have many admirers! [pause] Did you think that I would not come?”
Vasundhara: “No, I, I thought perhaps you… you couldn’t… didn’t…”
Venkataraman: “You thought perhaps I didn’t care?”
Vasundhara: He stood close to me, and lightly touched my hand… in that instance I was utterly and totally lost. If he had not been the gentleman he was, I would have lost all sense of decorum and decency.
Venkataraman: “May I have the honour of paying you a visit tomorrow afternoon?”
Vasundhara: “Yes…”
Venkataraman: “My friends call me Ramu…”
Vasundhara: I tried speaking, saying his name, but I couldn’t. Words would not come to my rescue, as my heart, and my mind, was no longer mine.
[The light changes.]
The very next day, at sunset he came to me, and we became lovers. It rained. The crashing rain on the roof, rushing through the trees, the whole world wet and cold – and I was warm and safe in his arms, breathing in his warm strength.
In the early morning, just as sunlight pierced the dew wet leaves on the trees, sending singing birds into a spree, he stood at the threshold, handsome and tall, waiting for me to let him go back to his world – a world different from mine.
Venkataraman: “My earth goddess, my earth goddess who has the power to bring heaven down to me, will you let me take leave of you, my sweet?”
Vasundhara: What joy! To be so sure that if I let him go, he would come back to me again. To feel the aching sweetness of his absence, thinking of him constantly, and then, to drink in the rush of happiness and laughter when he returned to take my hand in his, to gaze into my eyes, as I gaze into his, both of us lost to each other in love.
It was a miracle; my world of pain remembered, hopes dashed, questions unanswered melted away the moment our eyes met. In that warm, soft embrace, it was just me and him. It was enough, with his heart beating next to mine, to just breathe in and breathe out. My Ramu… my life.
[DEATH & DESIRE]
[The light changes as she moves to another part of the stage and lies down slowly. She lets out a long sigh and turns her head slightly.]
Parvathiammal: “Vasundhara… You have finally found something for yourself. Remember what is given can also be taken away… as it is with everything else. What I have, I give to you; this house, my jewellery, and all that you can see. That which is of real value, I have already given… [There is a long pause as she searches Vasundhara’s eyes.] Try to be happy.
[Parvathiammal takes in a long, deep breath slowly as the light begins to dim. In another part, a spot of light comes on, and Vasundhara walks into this.]
Vasundhara: I had never been happier. Even my mother’s death could not spoil the sunlight and the breeze in my day. For the first time in my life, I felt strong, one with the earth. The wind in my face was a caress, and the perfume of flowers from my garden made me smile. Spring came green and fresh, young and joyful, filled with love. I was surrounded by thankfulness. I had Ramu to love, and I was loved in return.
Each day, I gave thanks to my Lord, for answering my heart’s prayers, for sending me His love this way. I danced with devotion in return. Having love in my life made me realize how I can truly love God. It was no longer a sacrifice nor an obligation or duty for me to dance for my Lord. It was my joy. For the Lord had blessed me.
The summer came hot and sweltering but there were mangoes, sweet and rich, for my Ramu and me. At the beginning of the monsoon, the peacocks boasted their shimmering blue green tails, and it became known that Vasundhara had a lover.
The money, the gifts, and the notes of desire dwindled – I no longer danced for men, at least not those who came to see me with the hope of satisfying their urges. My so-called admirers began to stay away. The mean rumours spread about me took its toll on my reputation. [She is defiant.] I did not let it bother me. What? Was I to live my life according to their opinions? What right do they have to judge me?
But my money began to run out, and the next spring, I noticed a change in Ramu.
Vasundhara: “Where have you been? I have not seen you for the last two weeks! What happened? Is something wrong?”
He looked strange as he sat far from me, and I felt cold.
Venkataraman: “Things are changing, Vasundhara.”
Vasundhara: “What is changing, Ramu? [There is a long pause.] Is it me? Have you grown tired of me?”
He held me close, tight, and said that he couldn’t explain. That night, lying next to him, I did not sleep. Fear gripped my heart, and my mind raced through horrible possibilities that began to crowd me. The light of dawn brought no relief.
Over the next few days, I felt him trying to shake off the deep unease in his heart but he couldn’t. Desperate, I confronted him with my anger and frustration.
Vasundhara: “Tell me, Ramu, whatever it is that you are keeping from me and making you unhappy, please tell me. Obviously, it has something to do with me.”
Venkataraman: [At first, without looking at her.] “The time has come for us to break free. For too long we have been living under shackles and chains of our own making… I must leave you.” [And then, it comes like a blow.] “I am to marry a girl of my father’s choice…”
Vasundhara: “Coward! You liar! That’s not true! You lie!”
My hands were on him, scratching his face – he did not resist. I pulled out my hairpin, screaming, and stabbed him in his arm. He held my trembling hand to his heart, and said that it would be an honour to die by my hand and in my arms but that it was not yet to be. With blood on him, he walked away into the night. Out of my life.
[THE VOW]
[The light changes as she moves to another part of the stage.]
Vasundhara: People say that Time heals all wounds. But there are wounds that can never heal. They can be hidden but such deep wounds stay. I became truly alone. [She smiles cynically.] And in my circumstances, my being alone meant renewed interest among those who had found me unavailable before. Don’t judge me: a woman has to live, move on. Make the best of everything and anything. For is not this life given to us so that we can be tested?
Even if I was not to be happy, could I not give someone else a few moments of happiness? Call it what you will: animal instincts, base desires, immoral alliances, or cheap pleasure. Aren’t we all here, looking out for pleasure and happiness? Ha! Wise men call it delusion of the mind, that everything here is an illusion. Well, at least I can give someone an illusion of being happy. What else is there, if not illusion? And if I can delude someone into being happy for a little while, surely that counts for something. I am useful. My life has purpose. I mean something – not for long, I know. Can I say no? What choice do I have?
[She looks at the Shiva Nataraja statue steadily.]
Are you real? Or are you just a delusion of our minds. Our minds that need to fill the vacuum that we chance upon when we begin to ask questions. You are not really there, are you? The stories about you, concocted centuries ago, are there to keep us under the yoke of subjugation, of obedience… man made laws and customs, so that we will never find out who we truly are! [She pauses, and then, she lowers her eyes for a moment.] I know you are the incomprehensible one.
[The light changes as she moves around as if talking to many people.]
On the day I threw a feast for my admirers to celebrate my twentieth year, who should appear at my threshold… the man whose face I had cast away into the darkest recesses of my mind.
Krishnaayya: “Vasundhara, dasi of unparalleled devotion and beauty, the autumn moon that shines eternal in the minds of great lovers of art and poetry, sister to the ever auspicious goddess Kaveri, I have come, though uninvited, to toast your fame and fortune. You have surely surpassed your mother, Parvathiammal, in everything. Now, now, please do not gaze upon me with such hate for I have news that might help you heal those wounds of the heart. You may not believe me but I do have your interests at heart… hmmm. I must tell you that when you were keeping with that Venkataraman, you were setting yourself up for disaster to your career. You were a fool to dally with him for so long. It was fortunate that he ran off when there was no more money in your purse. And even more fortunate that you had come to your senses so quickly. Look at all your admirers today. What a celebration! Now, now, now, don’t upset your little head again. Chalk everything down as experience. And let me come to the point: that lover boy of yours, that Venkataraman who ditched you? It is reported that he was involved in that mutiny of the sepoys against the British, and in one of those silly and violent clashes, he was killed. Such a fool he was. Only fools think of freedom!”
Vasundhara: “But I thought he had married and settled down to become a businessman…”
Krishnaayya: “Pshaw! Nothing of that sort. He had been involved with thugs, terrorists and freedom fighters soon after he left you; naively feeding himself on notions of glory and freedom, thinking he can make a change. Fool! They are all fools! Throwing themselves against swords and guns…. Ha ha ha! But you’re not a fool, Vasundhara. You know what to do to keep tradition going!”
[A soft shaft of light comes onto her slowly as the rest of the stage dims out.]
Vasundhara: He sacrificed our love because he believed in a new tomorrow. He sacrificed his life, just one life among thousands, so that injustice can be seen for what it is, so that others will come to know it. He gave me up, he gave himself up to an ideal so that from now on, we can begin to live without the shackles and chains that have been yoked onto our shoulders for hundreds of years.
Ramu…
[The light changes, and she sings “Bhagyada Lakshmi” with lightness.]
I must be happy for the sake of his memory, for the memory of the one whom my Lord sent me, to make me happy for a short while… my Ramu. My love for him was not in vain… nor was his love for me.
For now I live this life with care, with a sense of peace inside me, even though there cannot be much that will lend itself to such an existence.
[She gazes at Shiva Nataraja, and then kneels in front of the idol.]
I pray… I accept this life given to me, I will be happy. All that you give me, I will take wholeheartedly. I surrender… so that I can have recourse to be free from pain and guilt, so that I can be happy with each new day until the last of my days.
And then, my Lord, I ask, I plead… in my next birth, let me be reborn as one who will do her utmost to regain the glory of the devadasis. Let me be in circumstances much better than this, let me have the qualities of Krishna’s Rukmini, beautiful, learned, wise, accomplished, strong and compassionate, that I may show the world what profound joy there is in worshipping you.
[She picks up the hand mirror to look at her face. Then she reddens her lips, and smiles at herself.]
You can see that I was beautiful once. Beauty is like a butterfly – intense but short-lived. But then, we have all these things to help us along, a little longer.
[She gazes into the far distance for a moment as if looking into the future, and then, coming back to herself, she smiles at us and turns around for us to admire her. She exits.]
THE END
