Nothing But Bhangra

Once upon a time there was a blossoming young brown girl who loved to dance. By no means was this girl a dancing queen. She was barely able to coordinate her lanky arms and legs to a decent rhythm. But dancing melted away the awkward adolescent years. Dancing was a way to connect to her roots. It was a way for her to make friends. The young girl loved this hobby, it fulfilled her like the music filling her ears. All through out childhood she had memories of going round and round in a circle of women clapping and twirling and singing along in exuberance. She couldn't remember the exact moment she first stepped into the dance circle, it could have been during a family wedding or at her home when the aunties turned the boom box on after dinner. What a glorious moment it must have been! The moment a young girl learned to become one with her body and culture.



Memories of dance practice in a school ground, giggling with a group of nervous girls getting ready to perform; getting yelled at by a dance instructor who happens to be her sister with very little patience and lots of focus on the perfect gidha clap; buying the shiniest trimming to spruce up a traditional Bhangra outfit; wearing tons of glittering eyeshadow to match her iridescent top; standing in a lineup with her best friends; hearing the lyrics "kathon kardi sunni sunni, baan lakh naal chunni", blood bursting through her veins; feeling the burst of adrenaline after stepping off stage, passing by a group of fellow dancers with a extra skip of confidence. Sheer pride in accomplishing a routine that took months of late night practicing: fighting over what earrings to perform in; auditions going horribly wrong; laughing in a hysterical fit when shouting out the word "FUNKY" in the middle of our performance; aggressively asking the videoman for a copy of the big night; watching me and my soul sisters do what we do best with a humongous smile on my face, ever immortalized in a Punjab Nite VHS.



She connected through dance to the legacy of her people, each instrument playing like a scene of history; the harvest represented in the melody of dhol, the silk of her grandma's shawl spun by the tumbi. She was her father's daughter after all, he who loved to sing folk songs and she who loved to dance to them. Stepping into a Punjabi outfit felt like wrapping up in a suit of identity, one that always fit every curve of her almond brown skin. Visiting her mother's childhood home she could hear the faint sounds of fire cackling, wooden trousseau doors creaking and her grandmother's voice zipping around the hallways. Her father's home remained unknown, like a sad chapter to a life story she didn't know enough about. His father before him had started from nothing after a decision made by outsiders forced him out of his village; his home would be revised and erased by history, becoming Pakistan, a place no longer accessible or recognizable. Sadly, the only son of an only son was no longer here on earth to share his-story. The songs, dancing, clothes and verses of forgotten poems were threads of connection holding together her legacy. It was all woven together into who she was, a young brown girl clapping on a brightly lit stage, dancing to the music of her mother, father, grandmother and their mothers and fathers before them.


***This post was a mashup with themes and writing styles from my previous posts, I wonder if you can catch which posts are shouted out here?! Also shout outs to my Nothing But Bhangra soul sisters who inspired this.