Dud on the Dance Floor

It's that time of the evening. The crowd melts away from the bar, and singly or coupled, swing towards the makeshift dance floor. And there I am, holding onto my near-empty drink for dear life. In prolonging that drink to the latest sip (or evaporation, if it comes to that), and hence the ritual visit to the dance floor, lies my key to self-preservation. Any interested party urging me over could so easily be deflected by a wave of the glass and a "li'l drink remaining... be there soon". For I can't dance. Not to save my life. From this ringside seat, reserved for the pitiable, I get an untrammeled view of the swaying masses of rhythm-haves and yes, that pretty thing from Accounts apparently auditioning for MTV Grind. As I artfully down another shot of poison, here's one to the naturally deselected.

So let's talk about the sore dancers, the rhythm-less creations, the ones that God's Wisdom and not his Grace sent down. The ones normally left alone (and best so) at dance parties. Two left-feet they call it. But whoever has attempted dance would tell you (if you don't know already), it's not the feet dammit! It's that your two hands too get in the way of your self-expression. As also a certain disconnect that creeps in as soon as you have to attempt anything wilier than foot tapping. For want of a better excuse, the blame lies with our genes. And the far-Southie misses the Jiggy strand.

As for cultural conditioning, it's only fortunate that being a Mallu I don't have too many brethren in moviedom to set the bar. And therein lies salvation. Mallu stars can't dance. And salivation too. Mallu starlets can sure shake their booty. But then, I digress. "Wow, you dance like superstar M___", therefore, is not meant to be a compliment. It's only mallu male-bonding in a twisted sense. The genres of dancing out there are but two: (I) the walkabout where “character-actor” star & nubile starlet ‘recite’ the song, struggling to make it look as ‘normal’ as crooning on a bus could be, and generally get it all done with, (II) an attempt is made by “commercial” star and underaged starlet to go head to head with non-unionized extras from Chennai. What follows invariably prompts Mallus in mixed company to gingerly reach for the remotes; there are enough horrors in our lives already.

Historically, there are fine dances that originated in Kerala. Most of them, Ladies singles or Ladies group. Picture that dusky lady with hair tied in a floral bun, head tilted by its weight. Crowned with a fine smile that launched a thousand fleets, all headed the other way. Incidentally, it’s not the considerable amount of oil in South Pars, Khobar or Kirkuk that drove our menfolk onto the Gulf, hitching rides on catamarans, camel-trains or Air India (listed in order of safety). It’s the inconsiderate amount of oil in her considerable hair. Ya Sidi, it’s cruel, but God is Merciful. The Gulf carries her faint aroma. Only you have to dig for it. And she be blessed. But no man, she do no cha-cha. Neither do her friends. Because all her dances are performed rigor mortis. Around an oil-lamp, to complete the picture. The sort Egyptians would have performed minutes before stuffing a mummy down the side of a pyramid.

In the meantime, none for the gentlemen to stretch their legs with, to jolly. Even the Scots do their own thingy while bag-piping. (It is this sad state that drove the barren souls to grape-nectar, popularised as Brandy. Parched as I am, let’s not go there.) Barring maybe, Kathakali, to which let me say just one thing. When you dance with a large skirt and all that paint on, don't you still expect the gals to fall for anyone but the bare-chested drummer out in front. For an ethnicity that celebrates a harvest festival, there is as much joy in our dances as Mr. Baby facing Customs at Kochi Airport.

Unlike our agrarian northern brethren. Who need no more than a stick popping on a drum to throw both their hands (and one leg) up, and do some early-Harappan calisthenics. With the feet alternating to aid lower body circulation. My historical research suggests otherwise: that was how they lined up to surrender. The moves came along to cut the boredom. The prevalent thought of that time being 'how many times would you give yourself up, no fight in any case, and all with a long face?' Cheerio! Look, even Genghis can't gag his grin.

I still can’t really figure out why I cannot dance. While I contemplate the dignified reticence of my ilk, my friend from the North seems to have solved his tax filing worries; I reckon he might even find it a lot more fun than usual. Coward.

But why mope, while there's enough drink to go around. Next weekend I will try Scotch and see if it works. But will anyone want to dance with a guy wearing a skirt?