Divya Iyer
(1)
Anika sat quietly in the corner of her room, the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the curtains, casting a golden hue on the worn pages of her Bharatanatyam manual. Her feet itched to move, her body longed for the rhythm, the dance that had been a part of her soul since childhood. But today, like every other day, she resisted. The sounds of her parents’ voices drifted from the living room, filled with the usual discussions of exams, school assignments, and future plans. Her father, Vishwanath, was in one of his moods—insisting that she focus entirely on her studies. “There’s no future in dancing, Anika. You need to be a doctor or an engineer, like everyone else,” he had said just this morning. The weight of his words pressed on her chest, suffocating the dreams she so desperately wanted to chase.
As much as Anika loved Bharatanatyam, it felt like a forbidden passion in her home. While her mother, Kamalini, did not oppose the art form directly, she, too, believed that academic success was the only route to security. Dance, in her eyes, was a pastime, a fleeting interest that would not bring any real rewards. So, every evening, after school and the endless rounds of tuition, Anika would steal moments for herself. She would practice in the silence of her room, the music of the classical tanpura filling the space, her feet tapping lightly on the wooden floor. But it was never enough—she yearned for more. She longed to perform, to perfect the intricate steps and expressions, to become a true artist. But that dream seemed so distant, so impossible under the weight of her parents’ expectations.
Shreya, Anika’s best friend, had been her constant support through all the turmoil. She was a bright, carefree spirit who saw the world differently—unafraid to chase her own dreams. “You’re wasting your time with these extra classes, Anika. You should be dancing. You have a gift,” Shreya often told her, urging her to follow her heart. Shreya was the one who always understood, who never questioned Anika’s passion. But the fear of disappointing her family kept Anika from truly pursuing her dreams. She wasn’t ready to face the wrath of her parents, especially her father. The thought of standing up to him filled her with anxiety. Yet, when she closed her eyes and thought of the stage, she could almost hear the music—soft, rhythmic, pulling her into a trance of movement. It was as if the dance called to her, a voice she could never ignore.
That evening, after her parents had gone to bed, Anika sat alone in the quiet of the house, contemplating her future. She had always been told that dreams were fleeting, impractical, and that the real world demanded practical skills. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that her true calling lay elsewhere. The stories of great dancers from the past, those who defied convention to follow their passion, danced in her mind. She thought of the legendary Bharatanatyam artists, their lives full of sacrifice and determination. Could she be like them? Could she break free from the mold her family had set for her and follow the path of dance? The doubt was crushing, but somewhere deep inside her, a small spark of hope flickered. She had to find a way—no matter what. The journey would be difficult, but she knew that without dance, she would never truly feel complete. The question was, could she find the strength to fight for it?
The next day, the tension in Anika’s house was palpable. Her father’s stern voice echoed in the kitchen as he discussed Anika’s academic progress with her mother. The usual demands for better grades and stricter discipline were being laid out once again. Anika sat at the dining table, pushing her food around absentmindedly. Her heart wasn’t in the conversation, and neither were her thoughts. They were miles away, lost in the graceful movements of Bharatanatyam that played like a silent film in her mind. She wanted to escape, to break free from this suffocating world of textbooks and expectations. That’s when she saw it—the advertisement on the edge of the newspaper, tucked between the pages she had ignored for days.
“Looking for dedicated students for advanced Bharatanatyam training,” the ad read in bold, black ink. “A teacher of repute, with experience on international stages, now offering private lessons. Limited spots available.” Her eyes immediately widened, her pulse quickening. Anika had seen countless dance schools come and go, but this one felt different. There was something intriguing about the phrase “teacher of repute,” a sense of mystery that tugged at her heart. Could this be the opportunity she had been waiting for? She had to find out.
The following weekend, Anika decided to visit the address listed in the ad. She hadn’t told anyone, especially her parents, about her decision. There was no room for approval in this moment; it was all about taking a chance, about finding her path. The address led her to a quiet street in a more remote part of the city. The house was modest, a two-story structure with a garden that looked like it hadn’t been tended to in years. The windows were mostly covered with thick curtains, and the air around the place felt heavy, like it held a secret. She hesitated at the gate, her heart pounding in her chest. Could she really go in? Was this the right decision?
Anika took a deep breath and walked up the path to the door. Before she could knock, the door creaked open on its own, as if someone had been waiting for her. The man who stood before her was nothing like the vibrant, larger-than-life figures she had seen in her books about famous dancers. Mr. Sandeep Iyer was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair that was neatly tied back, and a serious, almost somber expression. His eyes, though, were sharp and intense, as if they had seen much more than anyone could imagine. He was dressed in a simple kurta and dhoti, but there was an air of quiet dignity about him that Anika couldn’t ignore. He was older than she had imagined, his face marked with lines of experience and perhaps sorrow.
“You must be Anika,” he said in a voice that was calm but carried an undeniable weight. His gaze seemed to pierce through her, as though he already knew everything about her—the struggle, the doubt, the passion she tried so hard to hide. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The words made her feel uneasy and yet strangely comforted at the same time. How could he have known? She hadn’t mentioned her name when she called to inquire, and she hadn’t told anyone she was coming. Yet here he was, as though he had been waiting for this very moment.
“Please, come in,” he invited, stepping aside to let her enter. Anika hesitated for only a moment before stepping over the threshold, her shoes making no sound on the polished wooden floor. Inside, the house felt alive with echoes of the past—portraits of dancers, faded photographs of performances, and old tapestries hanging from the walls. The air smelled faintly of incense and something else—something old, ancient, and deeply connected to the world of dance.
As they walked down a narrow hallway, Mr. Iyer spoke again, his voice softer now. “I can see it in your eyes, Anika. You have the heart of a dancer, but do you have the courage to walk the path?” His words hung in the air, making her feel both challenged and seen. She had always known she wanted to be a dancer, but hearing someone speak to her like this, as though they truly understood her, sent a ripple of excitement through her.
They reached a room at the end of the hallway, where the floor was laid out in smooth wooden planks, perfectly suited for dance. A single barre ran along the wall, and soft light filtered through a skylight above, casting gentle shadows. This was where it would begin. Mr. Iyer turned to her, his expression unreadable. “This is where the work starts. But before we begin, you must ask yourself one question: Are you ready to sacrifice everything for this art?”
Anika’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t thought about sacrifice—not in those terms. But she could already feel the pull of the dance in the room, in the air, in the very space around her. She didn’t need to answer him right away. She knew the answer already.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”
(3)
Anika’s first few weeks under Mr. Sandeep Iyer’s tutelage were unlike anything she had ever experienced. The rigorous training, the intense focus, and the discipline required for Bharatanatyam at its highest level were both exhilarating and exhausting. But what stood out the most was Mr. Iyer’s presence—his unspoken wisdom, his silent understanding of her struggles, and his ability to push her beyond her limits. He didn’t offer much in the way of encouragement, but there was always a deep, almost intangible sense of belief in his gaze. Every time she stumbled or faltered in her steps, he would simply say, “Again,” as if the first attempt had never mattered. It was in this relentless pursuit of perfection that Anika began to find herself, or rather, to uncover what had always been inside her.
One afternoon, as Anika practiced a particularly difficult sequence of mudras and footwork, Mr. Iyer called her over to the side of the room. His eyes were distant, as if he were remembering something long forgotten. “You know, this dance is not just about the movements,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a quiet reverence. “It is about the stories that run through your blood. The stories of those who came before you.” His words were enigmatic, and Anika found herself leaning in, eager to understand.
“Stories?” Anika asked, her curiosity piqued.
Mr. Iyer nodded slowly, his gaze sharpening. “Yes. Stories of your lineage. Of the great dancers who have walked this earth, leaving their mark on the world, and whose legacy you carry in your very bones. You are not just learning dance; you are learning to awaken that legacy.”
Anika was silent for a moment, her mind racing. She had always felt a deep, almost spiritual connection to dance, but this was different. This felt like something ancient, something that had been waiting for her to uncover. “My lineage?” she repeated, unsure of what he meant.
Mr. Iyer’s lips curled into a faint smile, but it was not one of amusement—it was more like a knowing smile, the kind someone might wear when they have just shared a secret. “Your great-grandmother, Nandini. She was one of the greatest Bharatanatyam dancers of her time. And you, Anika, are her descendant.”
The words hit Anika like a thunderclap. She had heard of her great-grandmother in passing—stories whispered by relatives, tales of a woman who had been revered as a dancer of extraordinary grace and power. But Anika had never known the full extent of her legacy. Her family had always been quiet about Nandini, and for as long as Anika could remember, her father had never spoken about her. There was always an air of mystery surrounding her great-grandmother, a sense that her existence was something the family had chosen to leave behind. But now, standing before Mr. Iyer, those old stories suddenly felt very real.
“I don’t understand,” Anika whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Why haven’t I ever been told about her? Why is this a secret?”
Mr. Iyer sighed, a deep, weighted breath. He walked over to a small wooden chest in the corner of the room and opened it. Inside, there were old photographs, yellowed with age, and a collection of letters, some of them so fragile that the edges crumbled as he lifted them. He picked out one of the photos and handed it to Anika. It was a picture of a woman in her prime, wearing a traditional Bharatanatyam costume—her hair styled in an intricate bun, her face framed with jasmine flowers. Her eyes were powerful, filled with an intensity that seemed to burn through time. She held a pose that radiated both grace and strength.
“This is Nandini,” Mr. Iyer said softly, his eyes lingering on the photograph. “She was a woman who defied the norms of her time. A woman who took Bharatanatyam to the international stage when the world was not ready for it. She faced immense challenges—societal rejection, personal loss, and the constraints of tradition. But she danced anyway. And because of her, many doors were opened for dancers like you.”
Anika took the photo in her hands, her fingers trembling as she stared at the woman in the picture. Nandini’s legacy was a silent echo in her veins, but now, it was beginning to feel like a calling—an undeniable pull that she couldn’t ignore. She felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility, as if she were the keeper of something precious, something that had been entrusted to her. But there was also a flicker of doubt. How could she, just a teenager, possibly live up to such a legacy?
“Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Iyer met her gaze, his expression serious. “Because, Anika, it is time for you to know the truth. You are not just learning dance. You are learning to carry the torch that was passed down to you. Your great-grandmother’s spirit lives in you, and it is waiting to be awakened.”
The weight of his words settled heavily on Anika’s shoulders. She was no longer just a girl with a dream. She was a link in a long chain of dancers, a part of something much bigger than herself. And as she stood there, holding the photograph of Nandini, she realized that the dance was no longer just an art—it was a part of her destiny. The question now was not whether she could dance, but whether she could carry the responsibility of the legacy that came with it.
Her heart swelled with a mix of excitement and fear. The journey ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: she was no longer just following a passion. She was walking a path laid out for her by the dancers who had come before. And with that realization, she knew that there was no turning back.
(4)
