Dancing in the Dark?

The world is divided into two categories – those who can dance, and those who can’t.

And yet, we have hordes who cannot accept that they really weren’t meant to be in the sequel to Saturday Night Fever. Despite their all-too-clear case of two left feet, they insist on showing off to all and sundry that they are best fit to be head trainers for the advanced dance class at the posh studio in the next block. So much for optimism! And dance academies that scream otherwise from the rooftops...

Let me just state for the record: I’m no good with dancing. Years of flailing my arms around, I’ve reconciled that while I don’t exactly have two left feet, dance is something I should keep aside – like flat beer. I have absolutely no delusions about my dancing skills (or lack of them), and am quite at peace with the fact that I’ll probably never be an integral part of a dance troupe.

There I said it!

No shamefacedness. Just a crisp, clear confession.

Equally candid is my compilation about the various ‘dancers’ I have had the good fortune to have come across – the ones who I could watch all day.

While some are like ostriches on a see-saw, some step on your toes (and your patience), some just bop, some look as if they are in extreme agony and should visit an acupuncturist, while some look as if they are gingerly avoiding cracks on the pavement.

Here they go:

1. Snake dancer – Right at the top of my list is this specimen – he would make a snake proud – what with all the sweeping, circular, uncoiling, and writhing. He’s got a hood too – make that two hoods – hands raised together, shaped as domes. And as if the hoods weren’t enough to scare you, you have to also contend with the biting postures and occasional hissing sounds. Give this dancer a wide berth – you’ll thank me later…

2. The tipsy tap dancer – Such sorts ‘dance’ (or rather, make you laugh at their antics), but only after they have downed a few. The beer-brings-a-cheer philosophy was perhaps coined keeping them in mind. And they sure bring the house down after their sozzled feet make an entry on the dance floor. A one-a two-a three-and there! You spot them next squatting on the dance floor – complaining to no one in particular how the floor ‘caved’ under their feet. These dancers often also ape superheroes, and you can easily see them looking for their Batmobiles (or cloaks), trying to scale the wall a la Spiderman, or darting looks in horror why their Superman flying skills have left them in the lurch suddenly. Amusing – to say the least...

3. The ‘Walk like the Egyptian’ dancers – Remember this immensely popular Bangles number in the 80’s? Now cut back to current times – and imagine, some people still dance like that. Perhaps they are caught in a time warp. Perhaps they are avid fans of the Bangles. Perhaps they recently returned from a trip to the Pyramids of Giza. Whatever be the reasons – they shuffle awkwardly, swing slowly from side to side, trying hard to maintain their balance, while the onlookers try hard to swallow their chuckles.

4. The No-dancers – these ones have mastered the art of deluding. So while people think that they are dancing, what they are only doing are tapping their feet, drumming their beer or twirling their glasses, swaying lightly, doing karaoke renditions, snapping their fingers in rhythm – in all, doing everything except dancing. Super smart – I call these.

4. a. The wishing-I-was-the-DJ sorts - A variation of the above category, this guy will not only not dance but also, at regular intervals, how he would have made a much better (and popular) DJ than the one currently belting out tunes to the dancing junta. If he happens to be a friend, and you gently remind him that the last time he was given a free hand to get into the DJ avatar, he had song binged 17 odd times, you would suddenly find yourself the subject of a freezing stare or worse, an unkind elbow shove.

5. The Headbangers – now while I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with these (having been one myself), quite a few of them take the term pretty literally. So heads are banged animatedly, causing those standing nearby to go ‘Owwwww,’ tempers are somewhere near boiling point, and it doesn’t help that the glass you had been nursing affectionately for the last half hour, is dashed unceremoniously to the ground. So while their undisguised enthusiasm is all too obvious, equally unmistakable is the anger it evokes in those nearby

6. The train dancers – 1,2,3,4,5,6 people…enough to start a chugging train. You are in the midst of impressing that Hot! Hot! Hot! Stranger with your mean moves on the dance floor, when poof – you are relegated to the background…’cos a human train of 6 barely-out-of-their-teens party has decided to chug-chug around you, puffing engine sounds including. And before you can damage-control your dance moves, you find that the stranger who you had been madding round eyes at, the entire evening, has also decided to hop on..Phee Phee Chug Chug – he / she coos. What a waste, innit!

7. I will dance only when they play ‘MY’ song – hard to be missed, these ones – they will stand anywhere – in the corner, near a table, in the middle of the dance floor, looking hard at the DJ the entire time, waiting for that elusive number which they claim is their ‘Faaaaaaaaaayvorite.’ If and only if that number is played, will they deign to grace the dance floor with their moves. But till then, they will stand, fully ready. Sometimes the DJ does play their song – which puts them into a wildly euphoric mood; sometimes he doesn’t – in which case they keep looking longingly at him. Frantic ‘Hoys and Heys’ are shouted across the dance floor – and sometimes the DJ does relent, and put them out of their miseries…

8. People who dance to be picked up – their grotesque dance moves are eyeball popping and openly scream – ‘pick me up!’ Their sinuous steps are deliberate, so are their pelvic thrusts, and anyone within an arm’s radius and sometimes even beyond that, can figure that streetwalkers aren’t easier to come by than at the nearest discotheque.

9. The ‘mates’ – Aussies they are not, they dance as if in a mating ritual. The only difference – they might not wind up with a mate, but only appalled / revolted / murderous looks from horrified onlookers. The mating ritual is sometimes accompanied by groans which would have been more apt for a debauch flick.

10. The smoke-dancers – these have perfected the art of puffing and dancing. They pooh-pooh the idea of smoke-free dance floors, but since the sight of burly bouncers aren’t really their idea of fun, they inhale a long drag of nicotine, make their way to the floor, and while in the midst of a Cha-Cha step, exhale right into your lungs. Your indignant splutter does not elicit any apology from them, and in the next few moments, you are at the receiving end of a coughing fit, an unkind elbow into your unmentionables, and some very overpowering odor near your sickened nose, thanks to sweaty armpits doing an enthusiastic jig.

And the list goes on…

Perhaps you know some freestylers too. Feel free to pen your thoughts here.

No one’s judging… Go ahead…

Airtel Delhi Half Marathon 2009

November announced itself with a bang this Sunday. Quite literally!

Bringing with it an unmistakable nip, and of course the arrival of the Delhi Half Marathon - an event I had signed up for like a true zealot. To seal the deal, in case I did decide to look the other way, and sleep through the deliciously cool Sunday morning, I had also registered Daddy Dearest - an avid runner.

There really was no looking back.

Saturday noon – the day I collected the marathon goodie bag from a swish mall - was the day when it really dawned upon me that I would be joining the likes of 20,000 other runners by rubbing shoulders with them the next day.

TOOMA scoffed (quite a bit), did the Santa Ho Ho Ho chuckle, much to my indignation, and put it this way that I was running merely to scratch off at least one item off from my (very long and dismay-inducing) list of New Year Resolutions. Uhmm, maybe...But then, sitting 45 hours every week in a controlled work environment doesn't really let me know what physical endurance I am capable of, so there - I DO have another less-harsh reason for having run it...

I know for one that Daddy Dearest ran, not because of the sense of accomplishment it elicits, but because he wanted to assess his level of fitness. He needn't have worried - he crossed the 7-km line within an enviable 30 minutes, beating his own daughter, yours truly, rather hollow (shamefaced grin)...

Each runner probably has a different reason for running a marathon...

So while some people run for a cause, some do it for the smug 'Oh-yes,-I-ran-in-the-Marathon' routine, some for the adrenaline pumping, pushing oneself against limits that it entails.

Of course - there are also those who claim it is a change from their otherwise dreary, monotonous routine, those in the throes of midlife crises, those battling personal / professional strife, and then there are those who, instead of exercising their limbs at the run, exercise their vocal chords instead and scream their lungs out as soon as they spot their favorite celebrity who has flown in to show a thumbs-up sign at them.

Which was the case with many participants who set their eyes on the reigning superstar of the country - a recent convert to six pack abs and a walking mannequin of Armani suits. They stopped right in their tracks (pun intended), shouting his name in crescendo, while the State Chief Minister and the white-clothing favourer talk show lady host – our very own answer to Oprah Winfrey - looked on, half-amused expressions all too obvious at the blatant adulation on mass display. Chaos was rampant – and the star had to be handed a mic to remind and urge the people that they were there to run, and promising them that he would be there to greet, meet and treat them at the finish line.

I, on the other hand, was happy to have spoken with the not-so tall former rugby union player turned actor, known for his penchant for offbeat films and dedication for charitable work.

And then – it was time to run...a la Forrest Gump...

All around me, people ran enthusiastically, slowing down to hear the two bands belting out popular soft rock and pop numbers at strategic corners. All around me – feet pounded into the asphalt road. Even those people who would normally have driven to a 500-meter away grocery store – ran. Running shoes of all makes and kinds were united in one long sprint. Volunteers handed out bottled water to the avid runners. While for some it was a struggle to run, and who were clearly out of breath, the more energetic ones chanted peppy slogans, jingles and anthems. Smiles and names were exchanged, high-fives did the rounds especially from those wearing quirky headgears and neon wigs. Associating charity partners and corporates, complete with banners, flags and posters, ran hand in hand.

While some did not make it to the finish line, opting out after the survival shuffle failed them, others were luckier. Tired but victorious smiles were exchanged, and I guess most of them went back with a sense of accomplishment, pride, participation and oneness.

While some like me, hobble painfully - even two days after - swollen footed, a permanent grimace on their face, dipping their feet in bath salts added hot water at every opportunity they get...

Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen crooned.

Let’s put it this way – it definitely isn’t my favourite number for right now!