Kathak taught me gentle boom and wild precision. It was ancient all at once. It taught me the language of eyes (Whitman: “what’s that in your eyes? more than all the print I’ve read in my life); fine ferocious womanhood in the subtle hands and head. Feet on the ground. Wobble glory. Bell weight. Smack-arch on the smooth concrete. Drum speak back dig dig te tum da. Chai break and a closed-eye dilak. Right pregnant pause. Splayed story in the jump canyon.
Mata ji. Those three straight months changed my conversation forever.
