My first trip to India - and while it can be overwhelming, it's not nearly the ordeal I'd been led to believe. The purpose of my sojourn is to study Bharatanatyam - the ancient temple dance of South India - with a master teacher, Sri Narasimhachari of Kala Samarpana school. The Sri before his proper name is an honorific indicating his revered status among his peers and students.

Chennai, formerly known by its colonial name of Madras, has long been the center of classical South Indian music and dance. I arrived in the middle of the season, that is, during the Chennai Margazhi festival during which there are at least 10 performances each day, many world class Carnatic (South Indian) vocalists and dancers.

Classical South Indian music and dance is devotional in nature; that is, religious, dedicated to singing the praises of or telling stories about one of the many Hindu deities.

The classroom setting in a traditional Indian school differs greatly from that in the west. There are no mirrors, no air conditioning, no barres and the floor is concrete. (Indian floors are made of concrete or marble, which helps keep the room cool. At any rate, wood would buckle and decay in the constant humidity.) There is a tiny dressing space in one corner, which is used strictly one at a time (as the women prefer not to change in front of anyone, even another woman).

The major difference, however, is one of approach and attitude. The dance is considered sacred, a form of worship and devotion to the gods, and the studio is a sort of sanctum. One corner is entirely devoted to a shrine for Shiva Nataraj, the Lord of the Dance whose movements, according to Hindu mythology, animate the universe. (You may have seen the famous bronze statue, in which He dances with one leg lifted, encircled by flames).

Before we ever arrive, the lady of the house, who arose about 5:30 AM, has come downstairs, sprinkled water ont he doorstep, and drawn a kollam or ritual design (usually with chalk or powdered rice) in front of the door. No South Indian household begins a day without this timeless ritual. Another kollam has been drawn before the potted tulasi (basil) plant, which is considered sacred to Lord Krishna.

Around 8AM, students arrive and do any warm up exercises on their own, reviewing steps while waiting for Master Narasimhachari. (The teacher is referred to as Master or more often, Sir, which is used as a proper noun - as in, Sir will be going to the performance later this evening. ) As pre-recorded music is rarely used, the drummers, playing the South Indian mridangam or two-headed drum, uncover the drums and begin to practice in a far corner.

Upon arriving, I immediately switch on the ceiling fans (there is no A/C) and open the windows*; my Indian classmates are able to dance quite a while in the notorious Chennai humdity without them - to the amazement of their Western guests!

No leotards, tights, cutoffs or leg warmers will be seen here. Attire is traditional Indian - that is, a cotton dance saree, 6 yards of fabric shortened just below the knee (rather than the usual floor length), wrapped over a short midriff blouse and pyjama style pants. A punjabi suit (long tunic over pyjamas, with long scarf wrapped over the chest) is also appropriate for women. Men have a more relaxed dress code (this is true all over India); they often wear baggy pants, t shirts and even tank tops sometimes.

When Master arrives, silence falls over the class; Master faces the shrine in silent prayer, touching the feet of Lord Shiva and ringing the chimes that hang nearby. Some students fold their hands in prayer; others simply stand erect and attentive. They then greet Master, usually with folded hands in the Namaste position; many touch his feet in respect and he then blesses them (places his hands lightly on their head). While in the West we might see this as kow-towing to the teacher or flattering him, in India this is seen as being beneficial to the student, moreso than to the teacher - in other words, the teacher is doing the *student* a favor, not vice versa, by bestowing blessings.

Master sits on a bamboo mat in front of the class, and conducts with a wooden block and specially carved rhythm stick that makes both high and low tones. South Indian dance music is highly rhythmic with many intricate patterns, following rhythm cycles called tala. The dancer follows not the actual drumbeat, or even lyrics always, but the nattuvangam - a rhythm pattern within the tala, rendered by either tapping the wood block or 2 hand cymbals (the actual nattuvangam; teachers are known as nattuvanars).

In addition to conducting rhythmically, Master must also sing - which Sir does beautifully - and pronounce the solkattu or spoken rhythmic syllables, such as ta tai tai ta - dit tai tai ta that describe the dance steps. (Tat Tai Mori, the title above, means the language of dance.) To Western ears, solkattu often sounds like rap - with its highly percussive and rapid words. In order to properly dance an item, one must be able to say it with these solkattu words, as well as count it in the tala - something I am far from conquering!

Class usually begins with a series of adavus or basic steps. These are the building blocks of Bharatanatyam; geometric, precise series of movements. Bharatanatyam seems to divide the body into triangles, 45 and 90 degree angles. There are no sultry hip movements and few lyrically curvy arms, but the characteristic neck movement (adhame) from side to side, and the use of eye and hand gestures, has a stylized, more demure kind of charm.

When not dancing, students cannot lean, sit or fold their arms; we must stand in sam am - that is, with feet together facing straight ahead, the arms resting behind the back with wrists on hips, elbows akimbo, and back erect. This produces a mood of discipline and attentiveness.

Another thing noticeably absent is water bottles. Amazingly, despite the heat and humdity, the Indian students rarely drink water during class - believing that it causes stomach ache, especially cold water. I personally could not dance without it so kept my bottle in the corner, and had to sneak over between adavus to swab the buckets of sweat, and gulp some bottled water (local water being strictly undrinkable).

These Indian students have been learning much longer than I, and at any rate have an amazing capacity to memorize - very intricate steps quickly. They are at first surprised, then exasperated, and finally tolerant of my inability to catch on quite so quickly (and my need to reiterate steps).

From time to time, Master decides to deliver discourse, on any number of subjects - what dance was like in the old days (1940s and 50s), spirituality, personal character and so on. At these times we gather around him seated on the floor. Unlike some 'masters' he is interested in his students' comments and encourages dialogue. Sri Narasimhachari is a real multi-talented master, being a first class vocalist, compose, drummer and choreographer. There are few such prodigious talents left on the dance scene. To be able to dance in class to his beautiful voice, which I have heard so many years on cassettes in my American class, is truly delightful. I can't help feeling somewhat unworthy in such a setting!

Class is always over by 12 noon - South Indian tradition is to take a siesta often from noon till 3 or so, when the heat becomes more tolerable. Another group of students will arrive in the evening. After we leave, the sweeper woman (member of a lower caste who do all the cleaning in India) will come and tidy up. Learning to interact with all manner of servants is part of life in India - not just the elite but even more average families hire such labor. They are rarely addressed directly and often when they are in the room, nobody is considered to be there. It takes some getting used to.




*(All windows in India, except for very modern office buildings, are covered with wrought iron for safety - even upper storey windows. The Indian genius for design is such that the bars usually form curlicues, lotus flowers, peacocks, or even Om symbols).