Jhalak Dikhhla Jaa
Credit: X/@JhalakDikhhlaJa
It began at a friend’s daughter’s sangeet—that glorious Indian invention where every respectable adult suddenly believes they were born for Jhalak Dikhhla Jaa, our very own Dancing with the Stars. The event itself was a study in collective delusion: uncles with decades of joint pain rehearsing lunges like backup dancers, aunties practising Bollywood poses that defied both physics and orthopaedic advice, and distant cousins perfecting expressions of “effortless spontaneity” for the videographer.
While the air smelled of jasmine, roses, and juicy gossip, the unmistakable scent of mild panic couldn’t be camouflaged under the shimmer of the disco lights. A fog machine wheezed dramatically as choreographers barked eight-counts like drill sergeants of joy, compelling dance groups to do their “best”. Guests hooted and cheered with unrestrained enthusiasm for every performance, no matter how many beats were missed. It was democracy at its finest.
I was enjoying the spectacle quite unmistakably until the DJ went rogue. He rebelliously changed the script and announced, “Everybody on the dance floor!” To my misery, before I could politely pretend to check my phone, a cousin yanked me into a human tornado of sequins and self-confidence.
Now, I am not anti-dance. I simply believe in restricting my physical motion to activities sanctioned by civilisation: walking, waving, and occasionally bending to tie shoelaces. But as the beat dropped, my limbs staged a protest. My right hand flung east, my left leg headed west, and my dignity quietly exited through the nearest door. The groom’s family froze mid-thumka (classic Bollywood hip-twist of joy), while I overheard a child whisper, “Is she crazy?”, and amid my self-consciousness, a drone camera captured my existential crisis in ultra-high definition.
By dinner, I was a trending family meme titled The Human Windmill. An elderly uncle declared I had “brought new meaning to wind energy”, and my diplomatic sister said, “Maybe just clap next time.”
Humiliation is a terrific teacher. So, a week later, fuelled by equal parts shame and misguided optimism, I joined a dance class. The instructor, a radiant twenty-something who moved like butter on warm toast, asked what style I wanted to learn. “Basic survival,” I replied. She laughed. I didn’t.
Class one began with the ominous instruction: “Feel the music.” I did. It felt judgemental. While others floated like petals in a breeze, I resembled a malfunctioning robot. But by week three, something shifted. I could finally distinguish left from right (on most days) and sway without endangering others. I began to see the absurd joy of flailing freely without fear of ridicule.
Perhaps that’s the lesson: we spend so much of our lives moving in straight lines and rigid schedules that we forget how to move for no reason at all. Sometimes it takes a misstep or a mortifying moment to remind us that rhythm isn’t learned; it’s remembered.