Dance Baby Dance

You were once a shy kid.

At every birthday party, they would have to force you to dance. Where you would reluctantly get dragged to the tiny floor, make sure you’re far away from the annoying boys, and move your arms a little.

A little older. It’s an achievement to be in the school’s dance team. And do ridiculous fishermen or tribal dances. But the dance teacher selected you. You gloat.

Yet a little older. It’s cool to perform western dances on stage. You know, the cool kids do. In the spotlight. Popularity test to be in the western dance group.

Macarina, Barbie Girl, and Mambo No. 5 is what you groove to. Blue jeans and black tops. Awesome dance troupe.

And yet not so much older.

Dancing on stage is for social retards.

Suddenly not sure if you can dance.

You reluctantly get dragged to the tiny dance floor, make sure you’re far away from the annoying boys, and move your arms a little.

But then you grow up. School becomes college. Dancing becomes a high sport. An expression of your enthusiasm, and you begin to move.

You’re not sure of your moves, but you are sure of the music, and you learn to have fun.

And then you realize the power of the ability to dance. You start to diversify.

You try out your adaa’s on a Kajra Re, make sure your hips are more truthful than Shakira’s.

Songs get sluttier, so do you.

The distance from the annoying boys proportionately decreases.

Suddenly you’re hell bent on proving you’re more badnaam than Munni, and definitely more jawaan than Sheila.

Salsa and belly dancing are the tricks of the trade.

You grow up yet more.

Smiling, and looking socially decent in a pretty sari becomes priority. You move a little bit on the dance floor, with family, for the cameras. But most importantly, you look pretty, and stay within socially accepted norms.

You grow up yet more.

Arthritis and weight happens to catch up.

Moving your hands in an imitation of Bhangra is now the only socially accepted mode of dancing.

For exactly 5 minutes.

You’re old.

You sit in a chair.

You look at youngsters in their various phases of dancing.

You frown disapprovingly.

You tap your feet.

And smile at memories.