The Dance Of Becoming One

By Nidhi Patnaik

I am Mr. House and this is my story.

I have patches of aqua blue paint peeling off over my walls and windows. I have a long long past, spanning over many decades.

The house belonged to a duo of brother and sister. The brother’s favourite colour was sky blue and the sister’s green. So, their father painted the house windows and doors in turquoise.

Their father was a kathak dancer but not being an acceptable profession for men, he left dancing after his kids were born. His son did some menial work to earn his work but his young daughter would secretly close her room to dance for hours together.  

She even told me her secrets, her dreams, her desires to dance openly in the verandah surrounded by many rooms, one of them that led to a terrace through a series of stairs. I was young and handsome, all my walls clean and shining with a patch of trimmed green hair over my head.

I fell in love with her large expressive eyes as they moved left and right along with her hand movements. Her feet tapped softly to the tune she hummed silently.. Whatever she learnt was from her father who used to sometimes talk about his old todays.

But, today after many many years of standing aloof with my broken and old body, my messy green hair, the abandoned verandah, something awoke within me.

I saw a woman clad in a cotton saree with her hair tied neatly in a bun. But, she had a device in her hand and her head was covered with the saree’s pallu.

She secretly entered the compound and looked around to see if anyone was around. Her slender fingers gently pushed some buttons on the phone and her eyes moved left and right to check once again if anyone was around. With that she swiftly removed the pallu on her head and tied it to her waist. The music started playing at a low volume.. ‘ Dha Dhin Dhin na , Din Tin Tin Na.. and the pace became faster as she lifted her feet up and down to match the beats of the sound coming from the small device.

But, I can't stop looking at the large round eyes that move swiftly and speak a language of their own.. like trying to express something that died.. something that was killed but comes back to life when it meets its lover..

When I see her, my buried past comes alive as I think about the young  girl with the same eyes who died in front of me along with her family. 

Now, no one comes here but today once again, I think of a past that comes alive with the present and they dance together to become one.

By Nidhi Patnaik