Dance of Death
Most of the things that I find beautiful and those which I continue to savor later on have a common virtue. This is that they are subtle, on the verge of being inconspicuous. I have found, in my moments of infirmity; stark, in-your-face beauty to be glamorous as well but such moments always leave in me an indelible feeling of guilt. That (or my tumid tummy) was probably the reason why I was skeptical about my first visit to a bar being the ‘moment of a lifetime’. After all bars are not places you go to to discover what a person might be underneath his/her epidermis. All that mascara and gloss are too reflective for insight I guess.
The bar that we went to is on a height (physically and metaphorically) from which you can appreciate the whole of south Delhi nightlife. Zipping cars, reverberating music, large groups in party clothes and party moods. My friends, as expected, melted onto the dance floor as soon as we entered. Being reserved, shy (and a very bad dancer) I decided to stay far, as far as possible, from the uninhibited crowd. A sharp laugh rose above the din. Yes the essentials were all there: gorgeous dark eyelids, very red lips and auburn curls.
“Wow, takes the cake for being blatant”. I thought to myself. Before I started soliloquizing on if there is actually ‘too much of a good time’ she caught my eye again. The blue sleeveless bobbed out from among the cluster of people. Probably I would have noticed those bouncing curls as well if it had not been so dark.
I moved closer till I had a decent vista of her. She was largely slender except for her arms and calves which gave very telltale clues of her recent visits to a gym. Now there are few things I like better than ladies who work out. It tells me of this passion that they would have for life.
And that passion was pretty much obvious from the way she danced. Her arms went sideways with her fingers ready to snap. A pout from which to feed the world with her endless reserve of kindness. I could make out her faint silhouette against the light in front; I could make out her gyrating bosom, the tendons on her thighs, the straining of her calves. The colitas of her head bounced and swung. Everytime she moved with the music it felt as if her heels were stepping on some long asleep part of me. It was excruciating. But then not all pain is painful! She turned around though all I could make out were her fingers weaving invisible nets over her head. Then her arm shimmied down.
“Come on Eddie, we gotta go! My parents are fucking back.” I turned sideways to my very paranoid host. Whatever.
I wonder about her from time to time, wonder who she was, wonder if she saw me; wonder if death is similar to what I felt that day, wonder why she stopped dancing, wonder if I knew her. No, that is quite impossible. I would know that back from a lot of others.