Priyanka Boatbyl
The Silent Rhythm
The sun dipped low over Bhubaneswar, casting golden hues across the temple spires that rose like sentinels over the city. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and wet earth. In the courtyard of a quiet dance academy nestled behind the Lingaraj Temple, Ankita Ratha moved like flowing water, her body bending with grace, her fingers folding into mudras that told stories older than language.
Odissi was her soul. From the age of five, Ankita had trained under the strictest gurus, shedding childhood whims for the discipline of abhinaya and tala. Now, at twenty-seven, she was a celebrated performer, known across Odisha and beyond. Her performances breathed divinity — a seamless fusion of devotion and artistry.
Today, however, her movements lacked their usual conviction.
“Again,” barked Guru Madhavan, seated cross-legged on the mat, his eyes sharp beneath bushy grey eyebrows. “Where is the bhava, Ankita? Krishna’s longing for Radha cannot be danced like a school recital.”
Ankita forced a smile and adjusted her anklets. She started again, letting her arms speak of yearning and divine play, but her mind was elsewhere — on the email she had received the night before.
“You dance beautifully. But beauty comes at a cost. Let’s discuss it privately. I can take your career higher. You just have to be a little… cooperative.”
It was signed anonymously. But she knew exactly who had sent it.
Her recent success — an invitation to perform at the International Odissi Festival — had drawn praise from many, but one man’s attention had begun to feel like a shadow on her skin. Subrat Pradhan, a patron of the arts and chairman of the festival committee, had been growing disturbingly close. Compliments became insinuations. Handshakes lingered. Invitations became demands.
Ankita hadn’t told anyone. Not even her best friend, Shruti. Not even her mother, who still thought her daughter lived in a world of culture and grace. How could she speak about something so murky, so shameful, in a community where women were expected to endure silently?
After practice, Ankita walked home, the streets buzzing with auto rickshaws and temple bells. She lived in a modest flat with peeling green walls and shelves full of dance cassettes, bronze idols, and books on classical performance theory. As she unlocked the door, her phone vibrated again.
Another message.
This time, it was more direct.
“Refuse, and I’ll make sure you never dance again. Don’t forget who controls the festival boards and academy grants.”
Ankita dropped her phone. Her knees weakened. She sat on the floor, pressing her forehead to her folded hands.
That night, she barely slept. Memories of Subrat’s leering eyes at last week’s rehearsal party replayed in a torturous loop. His fingers on her lower back when posing for a photo. The forced intimacy masked as mentorship. The absolute entitlement.
She wanted to believe that being an artist gave her dignity — that her body, in performance, was a sacred vessel. But in his eyes, she was only an object. An opportunity. A prize to be cornered.
The next morning, Ankita stood before a mirror. She painted her face for class — red alta on her fingertips, kajal, a bindi. But her reflection felt foreign.
She dialed Shruti.
“Can I come over?” she asked, voice cracking.
“Of course,” came the reply, concerned. “What happened?”
Over tea, in Shruti’s kitchen, Ankita spoke. Slowly at first. Then in a flood. Every detail — every message, every uncomfortable moment — tumbled out. Shruti listened, her face darkening.
“You need to report him.”
“To whom?” Ankita laughed bitterly. “He funds half the institutions here. No one will believe me. They’ll say I led him on. Or that I misunderstood.”
Shruti was quiet. Then she said, “We’ll find a way. You’re not alone.”
In the days that followed, Ankita kept dancing. But something had shifted. She no longer danced for Subrat’s praise, nor for the stage’s adulation. She danced for herself — for every woman who had been silenced, for every time her body had been claimed without permission.
And as her inner fire grew, so did her resolve.
The first step would be documentation. She printed out every message. Took screenshots. Noted dates and times. With Shruti’s help, she began to research legal options, counseling resources, and stories of other survivors — artists, journalists, dancers — who had dared to speak out.
She wasn’t sure yet what her endgame was. Public accusation? Legal battle? A quiet warning whispered through the community?
But one thing was certain.
She would no longer remain silent.
Behind the Curtain
The monsoon arrived early that year. Rains fell over Bhubaneswar like drumming fingers, tapping against windowpanes and temple domes. Streets flooded, and dance academies echoed with the smell of damp mats and warm chai. But inside Ankita’s chest, a different kind of storm brewed.
Subrat Pradhan hadn’t messaged in three days.
It wasn’t silence. It was the sound of a predator waiting — gauging, planning. Ankita could feel it. That absence was louder than any threat.
Shruti had become her quiet shield. She checked on Ankita every evening after practice, and helped draft a detailed account of each incident. But the weight was still Ankita’s to carry. And in a field where tradition ruled, pushing back against power could feel like sacrilege.
“Why don’t we go to the media?” Shruti asked one evening, sipping filter coffee as they watched the rainwater creep toward the veranda. “There are women journalists who’ll listen. You have proof.”
Ankita shook her head. “They’ll ask: why didn’t I say no louder? Why did I still attend his events? Why smile in photographs?”
She looked away. “They won’t see the power imbalance. They’ll see ambition.”
Shruti didn’t push. But that night, she contacted an old college friend — Mitali, now an editor at Eastern Sentinel. Mitali agreed to meet Ankita in person, on neutral ground.
The café near Utkal University was quiet the next afternoon, its walls decorated with kalamkari motifs. Ankita arrived early, clutching a file of printouts, her stomach in knots. Mitali entered ten minutes later, sharp-eyed, with a long braid and an easy smile.
“I want you to know,” she said after listening, “that I believe you. And I don’t take these stories lightly. But if I run this, there will be backlash. Legal threats. Character attacks.”
Ankita nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m not ready for it to be public. Not yet. But if you ever hear from other women about him… I want to be the first to confirm it. I’ll go on record.”
Mitali reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “We’ll be watching.”
Days passed. Then a week.
And then it happened.
Ankita was rehearsing for the festival’s opening piece — a large ensemble featuring Odissi dancers from across India — when Subrat walked into the auditorium unannounced. The air shifted. His eyes scanned the room, then settled on her like a hawk.
He greeted the group, full of charm and flattery, handing out festival passes and fake promises. When he reached Ankita, he lingered.
“So poised,” he said. “Just don’t let politics distract from your art.”
It was a warning.
She met his gaze without flinching. “Art is truth,” she said. “It survives politics.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Later that evening, she found her name removed from the solo performance roster.
No explanation.
No reason.
She wasn’t even told directly. A junior assistant handed her the new lineup casually, unaware of what it meant.
Ankita stared at the paper, heart thudding. Her solo — Pashyati Dishi Dishi — the very piece she had spent months preparing, was gone. In its place was the name of another dancer from Delhi — someone with less experience, but a known loyalist of the committee.
Her breath caught in her throat. The page crumpled in her hand.
This was retaliation.
Shruti’s voice rang in her head: “We’ll find a way.”
The next day, Ankita filed a formal complaint.
It wasn’t just to the festival board — she sent copies to the Odisha Sangeet Natak Akademi, the Ministry of Culture, and the Internal Complaints Committee of the state’s performing arts council.
The complaint included the messages, timeline, Subrat’s role in program decisions, and her removal from the solo lineup.
She didn’t expect much. But she needed it on record.
For every girl who’d been told to smile and keep dancing.
Within 48 hours, the whispers started.
Some called her brave.
Others called her foolish.
An older dancer pulled her aside and whispered, “Beta, this is how careers end.”
But a younger one whispered, “Thank you.”
That night, she returned home to find her door slightly ajar.
Inside, everything looked normal — except her dance costumes. The embroidered saree for her solo piece was torn at the hem. Her jewelry box was open. Nothing taken — just disturbed.
A message.
She called Shruti. Then the police.
They filed a general diary, but Ankita saw the resignation in their eyes. No forced entry. No theft. Just “domestic confusion.”
She felt her breath tighten.
Was she strong enough for this?
And then, an unexpected ripple.
A dancer named Nivedita from Cuttack reached out.
“He did the same to me,” her message read. “I never spoke up. But if you’re going forward, I’ll back you.”
Then another name.
Then another.
A pattern was emerging. Ankita shared the contacts with Mitali, who began compiling testimonies.
But Subrat wasn’t backing down.
He filed a defamation notice against Ankita — a legal move meant to scare her into silence. She received it one morning along with a bouquet of white lilies and a note:
“Some flowers bloom quietly.”
She tore it in half.
That evening, Ankita did something she hadn’t done in weeks.
She danced.
Not for rehearsal. Not for approval.
She cleared her living room, lit a diya, and began Moksha — the final piece in Odissi that signifies spiritual liberation. Each movement became a release. Each breath a stand. Her body, her rhythm, her story — all reclaiming space.
Outside, the storm gathered again.
But inside, the rhythm was hers.
Echoes on the Stage
The festival loomed like a thundercloud.
The International Odissi Festival — once a dream, now a battlefield — was just five days away. Posters with Ankita’s face had quietly disappeared from billboards. Her solo was still canceled. But she hadn’t been officially removed from the ensemble piece, so she kept showing up to rehearsals, head high, body grounded like a temple pillar.
The other dancers watched her differently now. Some with awe. Some with caution. And some with open resentment, as if she had tainted something sacred by speaking out.
“She’s bringing politics into the temple of art,” murmured one senior dancer behind her back.
But Ankita had learned to listen without reacting.
She knew that silence had been the currency of survival in the arts for too long — and that she was now bankrupting it.
The defamation notice was real.
A thick envelope from a prestigious law firm. Accusing her of “malicious intent,” of “fabricating allegations to damage the reputation of a respected cultural benefactor.” They demanded an apology, a public withdrawal, and a monetary penalty for “damages to character.”
It was classic intimidation.
Shruti had already contacted a pro bono legal group in Delhi that worked with survivors of harassment in creative industries. They assigned Ankita a young advocate named Mihir — sharp, calm, and precise.
“We’ll respond line by line,” he assured her over the phone. “They’re betting on you backing down. But this notice is just noise. Let’s make some of our own.”
Meanwhile, Mitali’s quiet investigation gathered force.
With three other women willing to speak off the record, and Ankita’s permission, she prepared an article. It would not name Subrat — not yet — but it would outline the systemic rot inside the classical dance world. It would quote lines from the anonymous threats, highlight the abuse of power in cultural institutions, and feature Ankita as “Dancer A” — unnamed but unmistakable.
The article would publish on the morning of the festival.
Ankita hesitated at first. But then she remembered the torn saree. The bouquet. The silence of the institutions. If she couldn’t speak through the stage, she would speak through the page.
Let him hear her rhythm even when she wasn’t performing.
The night before the article went live, Shruti stayed over.
They drank warm milk like when they were teenagers and talked in whispers. About childhood. About the first time they fell in love. About the first time they were touched without permission and didn’t know what to call it.
“I used to think silence made me strong,” Ankita admitted. “But it only made me invisible.”
“You’re not invisible anymore,” Shruti said, and pressed their foreheads together.
Outside, thunder rolled.
The article dropped at 7:00 a.m.
By 9:00 a.m., it had gone viral.
By 11:00 a.m., Subrat’s office had issued a vague statement denying “false insinuations by anonymous individuals.”
By noon, a second dancer — a respected name — publicly tweeted support for the story, using the hashtag #OdissiToo.
By evening, the Ministry of Culture had called for an internal review of the festival committee.
And Ankita’s name was everywhere.
Some called her a heroine.
Others called her a liar.
A viral video from a rival academy’s Instagram page showed her dancing in a 2019 workshop where Subrat had been present, with a caption: “If he was such a threat, why perform under his patronage for years?”
The comments were brutal.
“Attention-seeker.”
“She wants to be famous, not honest.”
“Classical dance isn’t Bollywood. We don’t need MeToo drama here.”
Ankita read them all.
She didn’t flinch.
But that night, when she lay in bed, her hands trembled slightly, as if her body still hadn’t caught up with her courage.
The next morning, the festival began.
Bhubaneswar glittered with lights, and the stage was set beneath a sky of stars. Ankita arrived early, unsure what she’d find. She was still listed in the group performance, but no one had spoken to her directly.
She was led to the green room where the other dancers sat in silence.
Some greeted her.
Others didn’t look up.
Her costume was missing.
She asked a volunteer. They said her name had been struck from the performers’ list that morning. Quietly. Unofficially. No written removal. No explanation.
A few dancers avoided her eyes.
Only one — Nivedita from Cuttack — came and stood beside her.
“If you’re not dancing,” she said, “neither am I.”
Ankita stared at her.
“You don’t have to—”
But Nivedita shook her head. “I do.”
One by one, three more dancers stepped forward. Women she barely knew. Women who had read the article and seen themselves in her story.
A small act of rebellion.
Not loud. But not invisible.
The organizers were furious.
Subrat did not appear in public, but his assistant tried to mediate.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” he said.
“Then clarify it in writing,” Ankita replied.
He did not.
Instead, he threatened legal action again — this time for “disruption of festival harmony.”
But the damage had been done.
The media swarmed the venue. Cameras waited outside the auditorium. Dancers whispered in green rooms. Everyone was suddenly aware that their silence could one day cost them more than their stage time.
That night, as the main event played out with a reduced ensemble, Ankita sat in the audience, her saree crisp, her back straight.
She watched the stage with clear eyes — not with envy, but with knowing.
The art would survive.
But it would have to be reborn.
And she would help midwife it.
The Battle Beyond the Stage
The morning after the festival ended, Bhubaneswar felt washed clean. The rain had left behind a sky so blue it hurt Ankita’s eyes. But inside, she felt heavy. Not defeated — never that — but suspended between two worlds.
In one world, she was still a dancer.
In the other, she was becoming something else.
Something louder.
Something dangerous to the status quo.
Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Messages from supporters, survivors, even journalists. Invitations to speak on panels, to give interviews. But also hate mail. Anonymous threats. Subtle calls from senior dancers urging her to “close this chapter with grace.”
They all said the same thing, in different ways:
“You’ve made your point. Now move on.”
But for Ankita, there was no moving on without justice.
She dialed Mihir, her lawyer.
“I want to file a formal case,” she said. “Sexual harassment. Workplace retaliation. Defamation.”
Mihir didn’t try to dissuade her.
“I’ll need a formal affidavit,” he said. “And we’ll start with a complaint to the State Women’s Commission. Be prepared — this will take time. Years, maybe.”
“I’ve danced for years,” Ankita replied. “I know how to wait.”
The legal path was long and exacting.
There were affidavits to sign, interviews to give, evidence to compile. She went through everything again — the messages, the verbal exchanges, the sudden program changes. Mitali’s article helped establish a pattern. Nivedita agreed to submit a supporting statement.
But the biggest surprise came from an unexpected quarter.
Guru Madhavan.
She hadn’t spoken to him in weeks, not since her complaint went public. She had feared his judgment the most — old-school, stern, devoted to discipline above all else.
But then he called.
“I would like to see you,” he said.
She met him at the academy, unsure of what to expect. He stood in the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, eyes trained on the empty practice floor.
“You were always the strongest in rhythm,” he said, not turning to her. “Not the most gifted — but the most determined.”
Ankita didn’t respond.
He turned, finally, and handed her a letter.
A written statement.
Not long — just three paragraphs. But clear.
He had witnessed Subrat’s growing interest in Ankita. He had warned her subtly, once. And he had seen her name vanish from programs without explanation.
“I stayed quiet too long,” he said. “But you were right to speak.”
Ankita’s eyes burned.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just keep dancing.”
The backlash from the Odissi community grew sharper.
Some organizers pulled her from scheduled performances, citing “ongoing legal distractions.”
An arts magazine published a condescending editorial:
“There is a difference between genuine trauma and career frustration. Classical dance is not the arena for modern witch hunts.”
Another senior dancer tweeted, “Let the mudra speak, not the mouth.”
Ankita screenshot everything. Filed it all away. Not for revenge — but for the record. For history.
Still, the isolation stung.
The green rooms no longer felt safe.
Even her body began to rebel. Old injuries flared up. Her left knee locked after long practice. Her doctor warned of stress inflammation.
She knew what burnout felt like.
She also knew what purpose felt like.
She chose purpose.
Meanwhile, the Women’s Commission took up her case.
They summoned Subrat for questioning.
He arrived in crisp white linen, surrounded by lawyers. Denied everything. Claimed the messages were “fabricated.” Suggested Ankita had approached him romantically and been spurned.
Ankita was in the next room. She could hear his voice.
Smug.
Smooth.
Lying like it was music.
She went in, face bare, sari plain.
The commission members — all women — greeted her gently. They had seen many cases. Too many. But something in their eyes told her they were listening.
She laid out her case. Point by point. No tears. No drama. Just facts.
When it was over, one commissioner asked, softly, “Are you ready for how ugly this might get?”
Ankita nodded.
“I’ve danced Shiva’s tandava,” she said. “I know destruction.”
In the weeks that followed, a quiet shift began.
Not public yet — but noticeable.
Two more dancers contacted her privately with similar stories. One shared an email. Another, a voice note.
A young male dancer messaged: “It’s not just women. He’s done it to boys, too. I was afraid to say anything. Still am.”
Ankita didn’t pressure him.
Just told him: “When you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
Then, a call from Mumbai.
A national arts funding body had heard of her case. They were reviewing grants previously allocated to the International Odissi Festival.
One board member, a Kathak legend, called to say: “Thank you for shaking the roots. We needed it.”
Ankita smiled.
The roots were old. But some were beginning to crack.
Then came the night she had waited for.
A small, curated performance in Bhubaneswar — not a festival, not a political platform. Just a gathering of dancers, artists, students.
An independent stage. An honest space.
She was invited to perform.
Her name on the poster.
No strings.
No whispers.
No permissions from predators.
She wore the saree that had once been torn — now repaired, its seam bold and visible, like a scar turned into embroidery.
Her feet struck the floor with thunder.
Her arms told stories of rage, of silence, of justice, of rebirth.
And when she reached the final mudra — hands open, body still — the applause came not in waves, but in one solid roar.
Not for perfection.
But for truth.
A Fire in the Silence
By mid-March, the silence had become strategic.
Subrat’s lawyers no longer sent threats. His PR team went dark. The usual interviews, appearances, and cultural endorsements that used to feature his name with near-religious reverence stopped circulating. He’d been placed “on sabbatical” from the trust overseeing the Odissi festival. And while no formal charges had yet been filed, his influence seemed to shrink, inch by inch.
But Ankita knew this wasn’t justice.
It was containment.
Damage control.
She’d seen it before — powerful men slipping into the shadows just long enough to resurface elsewhere, rebranded, unbothered, untouchable.
She was determined not to let that happen this time.
The Women’s Commission finished their initial review. They ruled in her favor.
Their report cited “a clear pattern of professional retaliation following documented sexual misconduct,” and recommended formal investigation by the state’s cultural department.
It was a small win — symbolic, not binding. But it carried weight in the media.
Within 48 hours, three major news outlets published features on the case. One used her full name and photo — with her consent. The headline read:
“The Dancer Who Refused to Bow.”
The backlash was swift and brutal.
Social media swarmed with comments:
“She’s destroying a man’s legacy over a flirtation gone wrong.”
“She’s just another woke puppet.”
“Why speak up now? If it was real, she’d have said something back then.”
Ankita stopped reading them after a while. Even strength had limits.
She focused on the rehearsals for her next performance — not a protest, not a courtroom battle, just dance. Pure and personal. The body as resistance. The body as memory.
But inside, her spirit flickered — uncertain.
Had she become the cause? Was she still a dancer? Could she be both?
One evening, Shruti found her curled on the floor of their apartment, still in practice clothes, limbs trembling.
“I’m tired,” Ankita whispered. “Not just in my body. In my name. I feel like I’ve turned into a hashtag, a headline, a cautionary tale.”
“You’re more than all of that,” Shruti said gently, kneeling beside her.
“I just want to be… Ankita again. Just a woman who dances.”
“Then dance,” Shruti said. “Even if no one claps.”
But the world wasn’t done with her yet.
One afternoon, Mihir called.
“There’s a criminal complaint being filed,” he said. “Not by you. By someone else.”
“Who?”
“Her name’s Raina. From a dance school in Chennai. She’s making similar allegations against Subrat — with screenshots, emails, and a statement from her mentor.”
Ankita froze.
It had begun.
The domino.
Raina’s complaint broke open the conversation nationally. A panel of ex-dancers launched an independent inquiry into sexual harassment in classical dance circuits. An investigative podcast episode featured excerpts from interviews with survivors — voices altered, names withheld — all describing a similar pattern: grooming, boundary violations, career retaliation, cultural gaslighting.
And for the first time, men began to speak too.
One dancer, Aarav, went public.
He had been 17 when Subrat first messaged him.
His post was short, but devastating:
“He said male dancers didn’t get enough attention. That we needed patrons. I thought he meant mentorship. I didn’t know it meant silence.”
The tide had shifted.
Not because of any one voice.
But because so many had been silent for so long — and now, one by one, they chose to be loud.
Ankita watched it all unfold with a strange detachment.
It was no longer just her fight.
It was everyone’s.
But that came with a new kind of weight — expectation. People asked her to lead rallies. To give speeches. To be the face of the movement.
And though part of her wanted to carry that torch, another part wanted to disappear. To return to the world where everything made sense in 16 beats, where stories unfolded in breath and silence and mudra.
“I’m not a politician,” she told Shruti one night. “I don’t want to be a symbol.”
“Then don’t,” Shruti said. “Be an artist who fought back. That’s enough.”
The court summoned Subrat for an initial hearing.
He arrived with a legal entourage and gave a carefully prepared statement. He denied the charges, accused the complainants of collusion, and suggested a “conspiracy to dismantle his contributions to Indian art.”
The judge didn’t dismiss the case.
That, in itself, was historic.
And Ankita wasn’t alone in the courtroom.
Mitali was there, notebook in hand. Mihir stood beside her. Nivedita and Aarav sat in the back row. Shruti held her hand.
For the first time in months, Ankita didn’t feel like she was on trial.
She felt like she was part of a chorus.
And this time, they were singing together.
Later that evening, she went to the sea.
Alone.
No camera. No choreography. Just the hush of waves and wind.
She stood on the wet sand, closed her eyes, and lifted her arms — not in protest, not in performance, but in prayer.
A quiet mudra.
A beginning.
Between the Spotlight and the Self
Ankita was back in Delhi when the letter arrived.
It wasn’t from a lawyer, a journalist, or a festival organizer. It was from SPIC MACAY, the country’s most prominent organization for classical arts education. They were inviting her to curate and lead a national residency for young female dancers — a month-long program focused on Odissi, safety in artistic spaces, and the intersections of dance and identity.
At first, she thought it was a mistake.
She read the letter twice, then called the number at the bottom.
“Why me?” she asked the program coordinator.
“Because they’re watching,” the woman replied. “And they need to see a woman who stayed. Not just survived — but stayed. Danced. Taught. Fought.”
Ankita sat on her bed in silence long after the call ended.
She had asked the world to see her.
Now it was asking her to lead.
She accepted the offer.
But not without conditions.
“I won’t teach in spaces where abuse has gone unacknowledged,” she told them. “I won’t work with institutions that hide predators in their guest lists.”
They agreed.
The residency was announced in national newspapers under the title:
“Movement as Memory: A Feminist Reimagining of Odissi.”
Applications flooded in. Over a hundred dancers applied for just fifteen spots. Some mentioned Ankita by name in their essays. Others described personal experiences with coercion, silencing, or shame.
She read every single one.
Some made her cry.
Some made her angry.
But most made her feel seen — as if the ripple she had caused was beginning to grow into a wave.
The night before the residency began, Shruti made dinner at home.
They ate quietly — rice, dal, lemon pickle. Familiar comfort.
“Are you ready?” Shruti asked.
“I don’t know,” Ankita said. “I’ve never taught like this before.”
Shruti smiled. “You’ve never lived like this before either. You’ll be fine.”
But Ankita wasn’t sure.
She had built herself up from pain, from resistance. Now she was being asked to nurture. To hold space for others’ trauma without being consumed by her own.
Could she?
The first session began in silence.
Fifteen young dancers, all between the ages of 18 and 30, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor. Some had come from prestigious dance schools. Others from tiny village troupes. Some wore bells proudly. Others kept them in their bags, unsure.
Ankita introduced herself not as “Guru” or “Ma’am,” but simply: “Ankita-di.”
She began with a story.
Not about Subrat. Not even about the harassment.
But about how she almost quit dancing because she no longer knew if her body belonged to herself.
Then she taught them moksha — the final piece in a traditional Odissi performance. The one that signifies liberation.
“Not perfection,” she told them. “Just freedom. Whatever that means for you.”
By the end of the week, the studio echoed with new rhythms. The sound of bells and bare feet. Laughter. Weeping. Healing.
And Ankita, for the first time in a long time, felt whole.
But outside the residency, the world kept turning.
The court proceedings dragged on. Subrat’s team filed a counter-complaint, accusing Ankita of character defamation. Mihir handled it calmly. “It’s all part of the game,” he said. “Don’t let it slow you.”
More allegations emerged. One prominent cultural trust was dissolved after a whistleblower leaked internal emails. An Odissi school in Bangalore suspended its head instructor after a student shared recordings of verbal abuse.
The media called it a “reckoning.”
Some called it a “witch hunt.”
But whatever it was — it was no longer quiet.
Mitali’s second article dropped mid-month.
Titled “The Sacred and the Stained: How Classical Dance Conceals Violence,” it featured multiple testimonies — including from Raina, Aarav, and anonymous sources. It traced the history of silence in Indian classical traditions, the guru-shishya model’s vulnerability to exploitation, and the urgent need for accountability.
Ankita’s name came up just twice — once at the beginning, once at the end. Neither heroized nor vilified. Just… honored.
It was Mitali’s best work yet.
And it lit a fire under the Ministry of Culture.
By month’s end, a formal panel on Gender and Power in Classical Arts was formed. Public hearings would begin that summer.
Ankita received an invitation to join as an advisor.
She hesitated.
“I’m not an academic,” she told Shruti.
“You don’t need a PhD to know the truth,” Shruti replied.
But Ankita wasn’t sure she could balance it all — the teaching, the advocacy, the legal case, her own art.
“Maybe I’ve said enough,” she whispered one night, half to herself. “Maybe now others should speak.”
Shruti reached across the table and took her hand.
“Then rest. But don’t disappear. You showed us how to speak. That matters.”
On the last day of the residency, the fifteen dancers performed short solo pieces. Some choreographed new works. Some reinvented classics. One young woman told the story of her grandmother fleeing child marriage — through abhinaya alone. Another reimagined Ardhanarishvara, the half-male, half-female deity, as a struggle between shame and truth.
Ankita watched, heart bursting.
This was what justice looked like.
Not a courtroom.
Not a headline.
But a room full of women who refused to be silenced.
That evening, she returned to her own practice.
Alone.
Barefoot. No stage. No audience.
Just her reflection in the studio mirror.
She began slowly, arms rising like smoke, feet anchoring her to earth.
Each movement was a declaration.
A memory.
A promise.
She reached the final mudra — Abhaya: the gesture of fearlessness.
Her fingers held it longer than usual.
Not for the world.
For herself.
The Court of the Country
When Ankita entered the auditorium of the National School of Arts in Delhi for the first public hearing on gender and power in classical traditions, she expected a modest turnout. A few academics. Some dancers. Maybe a bored journalist or two.
Instead, she found a crowd.
Hundreds — students, teachers, activists, performers. Some sat on stairs or stood at the back. Many held notebooks. Some wore their ghungroos around their wrists like prayer beads.
At the center of the stage sat a curved table, behind which were seated seven panelists: a senior Kathakali guru, a social historian, a Carnatic vocalist, a women’s rights lawyer, a Bharatanatyam dancer turned academic, a government cultural advisor, and finally… Ankita Bellam.
The audience hushed as the panel began.
They called it a “Listening Session.”
No cameras. No press. Just stories — raw, painful, sacred.
A young Mohiniyattam dancer recounted being propositioned at a temple performance when she was 15.
A male Kuchipudi artist spoke of an implicit demand: gratitude in exchange for stage time, which sometimes blurred into intimacy.
One story drew gasps — a young Odissi dancer described being asked to sleep in her guru’s hotel room during a festival. She was 17. She pretended to be sick and fled to a friend’s house.
Ankita’s hands stayed folded in her lap through each testimony.
But her jaw was tight. Her eyes didn’t blink.
She wasn’t there to perform.
She was there to witness.
During the break, the Bharatanatyam scholar leaned over to her.
“You’re brave to come back to this space,” she said. “To sit in the same circles that once made you feel small.”
Ankita gave a small smile. “I didn’t come back for them. I came back for the ones who are still here.”
Later that night, in her hotel room, Ankita opened her email.
There was a message from a dance institute in Toronto.
It was an offer: A two-year position as artist-in-residence and visiting professor of classical Indian performance and gender studies.
The stipend was generous. Accommodation included. Visa support provided.
Ankita read it three times, then closed her laptop.
She didn’t tell Shruti.
Not yet.
The court date arrived.
The criminal hearing in Raina’s case — the one with digital evidence, a clear pattern, a formal charge.
Ankita wasn’t required to attend. But she went anyway.
Raina wore a simple blue kurta and no makeup. Her eyes met Ankita’s in the hallway. They didn’t speak. But they didn’t need to.
Inside the courtroom, Subrat sat with his legal team.
He looked older. Thinner. Tired.
But his eyes still held that old, chilling calm. As if none of this could touch him.
The prosecution laid out their evidence methodically: inappropriate messages, abuse of authority, coercive dynamics.
The defense argued artistic intent, misinterpreted tone, “convenient timing.”
But the judge didn’t rush.
He asked questions.
He listened.
When court adjourned that day, the hearing was extended for formal cross-examination — a sign that the charges were being taken seriously.
It wasn’t a victory.
But it wasn’t silence.
That night, Ankita sat in her studio, arms wrapped around her knees, a quiet chaos inside her.
Shruti walked in and placed a small paper box beside her.
“What’s this?”
“Mishti doi,” Shruti said. “You haven’t had anything sweet in weeks.”
Ankita smiled. “You bribing me?”
“I’m reminding you,” Shruti said gently. “That sweetness still exists. Even now.”
Then Shruti added, quietly, “You got a letter from Toronto.”
“You opened it?”
“No. But I guessed. I knew it was coming.”
Ankita sighed.
“I don’t know what I want,” she admitted. “I thought I did. But now… this country feels both like a wound and a home.”
Shruti nodded. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it always was.”
Two weeks later, Ankita stood onstage again — but this time, not to dance.
She gave a keynote speech at a cultural conference titled “Art and Power: Reclaiming Sacred Spaces.”
She spoke clearly. Slowly. No dramatics.
She talked about trust.
About touch.
About the way female bodies are told they must perform, please, submit — and how the language of devotion is sometimes weaponized against them.
She ended with a quote from her old Odissi teacher, long passed:
“A true mudra isn’t made with fingers. It’s made with conviction.”
The audience gave a standing ovation.
But more important than the applause were the young dancers who lined up afterward to speak with her — not to thank her, but to share their own truths.
One even whispered, “I thought I was alone.”
“You never were,” Ankita replied.
That night, Ankita wrote back to Toronto.
She thanked them.
She asked for a deferral.
Not because she didn’t want to go.
But because she wasn’t done here yet.
She needed more time.
The next morning, she woke up early and went to her favorite open-air dance terrace in Lodhi Garden.
She danced alone.
No mirror.
No audience.
Just earth underfoot and sky overhead.
She performed a piece she had choreographed herself — no traditional story, no script.
Just movement.
Rising.
Falling.
Forgiving.
At the end, she stood in abhaya mudra once again.
But this time, her hands didn’t shake.
She was still afraid.
But she was no longer alone.
The Final Bow
It rained on the morning of the verdict.
Not a violent storm, but the kind of rain that clings softly to everything — a blessing or a warning, depending on your heart.
Ankita arrived at the court in a white cotton saree, hair tied back, no makeup. Beside her stood Shruti, calm and quiet, as always. Raina was already inside, surrounded by two lawyers and a friend she called her “dance sister.”
Subrat arrived late.
His appearance drew murmurs — gray at the temples, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes sharp but dulled. Gone was the regal presence, the guru who once filled auditoriums with a single glance.
Ankita didn’t look at him.
She didn’t need to.
The courtroom was packed. There were no cameras, no press inside, but the presence of watchers was heavy — silent, but attentive. Survivors. Students. Observers.
The judge, an older man with a heavy voice and lighter eyes, began reading the ruling.
It was long. Meticulous. Every clause justified. Every argument addressed.
And then came the words Ankita would never forget:
“…the court finds the accused guilty of sexual harassment under Section 354A, and abuse of position of authority under Section 376C…”
Gasps. A few sobs. No cheers. Just the sound of breathing — sharp, caught, released.
Subrat remained still. His lawyers asked for bail pending appeal. The judge denied it.
He was taken into custody.
No handcuffs. No dramatic exit. Just a door closing quietly behind him.
Outside the courtroom, Raina broke down.
Ankita held her. Not as a symbol. Not as a leader. Just one woman to another.
“I didn’t think we’d win,” Raina whispered.
“We didn’t win,” Ankita replied. “We just didn’t lose this time.”
The next day, the news spread everywhere.
“Renowned Odissi Guru Found Guilty in Landmark Harassment Case”
“The Classical Reckoning: India’s #MeToo Moment Hits the Dance World”
“Ankita Bellam and Raina Sharma: The Women Who Dared”
Ankita gave one interview. One.
She spoke softly. No anger. No triumph.
She said:
“This isn’t about destroying anyone. It’s about acknowledging pain. Protecting futures. And making sure silence doesn’t dance beside us anymore.”
Then she withdrew from the media cycle.
In the weeks that followed, changes began.
Several institutions adopted formal grievance cells for students.
Festival organizers began publishing codes of conduct.
Workshops emerged on consent and boundaries in the guru-shishya tradition.
Some dismissed it as tokenism.
Ankita didn’t argue.
She had planted the seed.
It was up to others now to water it.
That August, she gave her final performance in India.
The auditorium in Bhubaneswar was full — not because of scandal, but because of reverence. People came not just to see a dancer, but to witness a chapter close.
The piece was called “Sutradhaar” — The Storyteller.
It had no gods. No epics. No mythic battles.
Only the journey of a woman finding her way through shame, rage, silence, and finally — stillness.
She began in darkness. Her body curled, trapped.
She rose slowly, as if shaking off centuries.
At the climax, she reached her arms outward — not upward — and offered her story to the world.
No flames. No grand finish.
Just a single mudra: Hamsasya — the swan’s beak. A symbol of subtlety. Of discernment. Of truth.
The auditorium was still for several seconds after she ended.
Then applause — long, rising, not explosive, but enduring.
Shruti was waiting in the wings. So were her students. And a dozen young dancers who had traveled across states just to watch her move.
Ankita bowed deeply.
Then she walked offstage, unburdened.
Two months later, she boarded a flight to Toronto.
Not to escape.
But to expand.
She carried her ghungroos in her hand luggage, wrapped in cloth. Like an heirloom. Like armor.
At customs, the officer glanced at her declaration form.
“Occupation?” he asked.
She paused.
Then smiled.
“Dancer.”
In her first class at the university, she asked her students:
“Why do we dance?”
One girl said: “To express.”
Another said: “To escape.”
A boy at the back said: “To survive.”
Ankita nodded. “All true. But I think — we dance to remember. Who we are. What we carry. And what we refuse to carry forward.”
She didn’t tell them everything.
Not yet.
Some stories need to be danced before they’re spoken.
On a snowy December morning, she opened an envelope from India.
It was a letter from one of her students from the residency.
The last line read:
“I performed moksha last week. I dedicated it to the women who made me brave. You were the first.”
Ankita closed the letter and looked out at the white silence beyond her window.
Then she rose. Untied her bells. And stepped into the light of a new morning.
— Priyanka Boatbyl
For every woman who refused to stay silent.
THE END
