In the basement of the Ganesh Temple in Flushing, a group of young girls are gathered. Each of the children is wearing a bright sari and loose, colorful pants, a stark contrast to the white walls surrounding them. Underneath the buzzing conversation and rustling of coats being removed, a continuous droning sound can be heard.
The source of the noise is a small box placed at the feet of Guru Thejaswini Raj, the dance teacher who is sitting cross-legged at the front of the room. She is draped in bright burgundy cloth and her expression remains steady and focused despite the clamor surrounding her. With a single clap, she hushes the group and asks them to gather.
Each girl takes a position standing in front of the teacher, grounding her feet and looking towards her with expectation. It is only when Thejaswini brings her hands together in front of her chest that the silence is broken. The group collectively begins their prayers, creating an ohm sound that ricochets against the marble floors and reinforces the droning.
As the prayers come to a close, the girls line up to kneel down and touch a small wooden block at the guru’s feet as a sign of devotion and respect. Before rising up, they cover their eyes and return to their places. As the younger children rush clumsily through the intimate ceremony, a twinge of Thejaswini’s cheek suggests the suppression of a smile.
Before the class begins, Thejaswini takes a moment to explain to a new student the meaning behind the art form. She says that as there is a divine presence within each of us, bharatnatyam (or dance) provides a means of connecting to this source on a deeper level. The intricacies of the form were derived from the sacred Vedas – Hindu religious texts – and are so precise that she compares them to “a science.”
When someone dances as a form of worship, “it is not just externally beautiful. Something deep is awakened within the artist,” explains Thejaswini. “The divine is present in all of us, and we must look inward to discover. When we forget about this inner god, we cannot know our own conscience.”
This unique form of prayer and worship is broken down into three distinct components: Bhava (expression), Raaga (melody), and Tala (rhythm). By uniting these three forces, the dancer forms a connection with the deity within. Even the act of witnessing this devotion allows the divine spark within the audience to ignite.
As Thejaswini finishes her explanation, she sees that the six-year-olds at the front of the class are beginning to twitch impatiently. This is immediately rectified as she begins to play the music.
In her right hand she clutches a small wooden stick that she rhythmically taps against the small wooden block. At times, the rhythm is slow and methodical, emulating a heartbeat. With each beat, the girls move their hands into intricate shapes and move their feet in either a stomping or sweeping motion.
As the steps become more complex the gestures become increasingly elaborate, the beat becomes syncopated. This rhythm is reinforced by the guru as she begins to recite a Sanskrit extract in time with the tapping.
The dancer’s fingers twist and twitch into different forms, mimicking flowers, waves and elegant arrangements. If even one finger is out of place, Thejaswini corrects the dancer and reminds them of the precision needed to communicate the story for this particular item – in this case, a dance devoted to Krishna and the Bhagavad Gita.
With each twirl of the hands, the dancers’ feet move with equally impressive agility. Their bodies bend and sway as they turn to the fluctuating rhythm. Each motion is accentuated by their animated expressions. As the story progresses, their face contorts with emotion as they change from smiling to frowning, their eyebrows twitching to emphasize the moment.
Despite the complexity and skill of the troop, the tapping stops and the drone is silenced as their guru holds up her hand to correct them. “No, no, no, you must look bolder. You must keep your hands loose. You’re telling us of how Krishna gave strength to Arjuna, so your movements must show the strength of god.”
According to the Gita, while on the battlefield, the warrior Arjuna realized he was surrounded by friends and family. As he began to doubt himself, he turned to Krishna in desperation. Krishna explains that as the body is temporary but the spirit is eternal, life cannot be truly destroyed. Instead of fearing the destruction of the temporary, he must fulfill his duty and continue to fight.
As the dance resumes, the girls’ bodies become more defiant in their motion and their eyes glimmer with concentration. Their expressions flicker between confidence and doubt as they echo the exchange between the god and the fearful prince.
With a final flourish of their hands, the piece comes to a close and the girls wipe the beads of sweat peppering their brows. At the close of the class, I ask Thejaswini why this form of devotion is so important.
After pausing for a moment, her expression softens and her eyes light up. “I fell in love with god because of dance,” she says. Although there are many paths to spiritual liberation or ways of expressing devotion, for her dance is the most intense way to connect to the divine.
Thejaswini was taught the intricacies of the form by her father while living in Southern India, eventually founding the Shivajyothi Dance Academy in Mumbai in 1980. She established a school in New York in 2008 as a way of reviving the art of Bharatnatyam, and maintaining a connection both to her spirituality, and her home.
“All rivers have a different name, but all lead to the ocean. Dance is not only a way to understand god and the vedas, it is a journey of self discovery.”
The Hindu Temple Society of America is located at 45-57 Bowne Street
Flushing, NY 11355.