The dance is sacred, but what is also sacred is the preparation before it, and as much part of the ritual as the performance itself. It is a time in which to still my mind, to focus, composed of many little 'sacred' acts, each important in its own way. Hours to put on the costume and makeup just to dance ten minutes? Yes, if you only consider the part while the dancer is in front of the audience, but really the dance starts much before that, maybe even from the morning, when checking if they have enough safety pins, bobby pins, and a mirror (which is never guaranteed in changing rooms) in the bag they've probably prepared the evening before, or maybe keep already packed in a cupboard all year round.
Getting to the location four hours before the set time, checking the music, trying the stage (this one was the worst i've seen yet, but still we dance), finding a changing room. Then start finding your center. Find a quiet place inside, stretch, flex your muscles, wake them up.
Start dressing. An Odissi costume is made up of five different pieces, all cut from one same silk saree and sewn following the dancer's exact measurements (ideally, at least). They must all be put on in a precise order and tied over each other and fixed with safety pins so they move when your body does and not when they decide to.
Trying to tie my hair in a bun while ignoring the kids outside, knocking on the window to get my attention. Have to start over twice. All normal. Going on to makeup, not too complicated, just a bit of contouring, very heavily lined eyes, lipstick, and a bindi.
Then jewellery. I only have two bracelets, armlets, a forehead jewel, and a belt. All metal. My teacher is lending me earrings (more like earcuffs) and a necklace...and I'm still wearing much less than an average dancer. Trying to get the forehead piece to lie still is kind of impossible so I give up after a while. My teacher tells me some dancers use nail varnish to get the thing to stick to their forehead...while I at firstly dismissed this as a bit extreme I am now seriously considering it for next time. For what is a skin rash in exchange for the tikka not flying off when you do a bhramari.
I decide I can spare some time to go out a bit in the sun, since it's the end of october and I'm wearing short sleeves and flip-flops while everyone else is in coats and boots.
Take a walk, relax, some musicians are trying the stage as well. Sitar and tabla.
A couple of hours to go. With my teacher we try to find a quiet spot for her to finish my make up. This is the most complicated part of the preparation: the paint is used to draw a circle of dots around the bindi, then over the eyebrows curving down to the cheekbones and ending in a spiral on the cheeks (it can actually get much more elaborated than that but it's difficult enough to get a simple shape to be symmetrical without overcomplicating things...also the paint tends to be extremely runny and goes everywhere except where it should stay).
Makeup finished, I go back to the changing room: I'm still missing the tahia, a head piece, which is tied over the bun and completed with one or two rows of flowers and a spike which is somehow stuck through everything. Try moving around to see that nothing moves. Wishing I'd remembered to bring hairspray (I normally hate hairspray with all my will, but must admit to its usefulness in such situations).
To the extreme joy of the kids still peeking at the window, I sit on the floor, grab a few paper towels to protect the tiles, and start with the alta. This red liquid is used to paint the hands and feet. Again, very tense situation because the liquid stains everything and bleeds everywhere, and I'm trying to get even lines. First the toes are painted red, then the red is carried in a line back around the heel and to the other side, and a circle is added on top of the foot. The fingers of both hands are then painted (I usually go up to half of the second phalanx, but I guess it's a question of personal taste) and are completed with a circle in the centre of the palm and on the back of the hand. I'm now starting to get slightly tense, other dancers are starting to arrive, and I'm trying to paint my left hand (being left-handed this is not as easy as it sounds) while holding conversation. Still, I manage to finish without damage to the costume or the floor.
It is almost time to get on stage, and the changing room is now a confusion of people adjusting their makeup and chatting, so I grab my things and throw them in a corner (order is superfluous at this point), only keeping the ghungroos out. The ankle bells are the most important part of the costume, the most sacred. They are the last thing to be put on. I stretch my legs a bit more, try to relax in the chaos, hold them to my third eye, then to my heart, breathe. Then tie them on. The right, the left. Try a few steps, bending the legs, notice the places where they hold the costume too tight and adjust them. Try jumping to see if they are too loose. Feel them.
It is a beautiful thing, having ankle bells on, the moment they're tied changes the perception of your movements, steps, feet, ground. It just feels more important, you become 'ready' and shoes are instantly worthless barriers. The sole of the foot wants to touch the floor and feel its temperature and texture, hear its sound.
I get out of the changing room with the flip-flops in my hand, and reach the other dancers getting ready to go on stage.
