Like a puja thali, my jewellery box is also a toolkit of sorts

Clothes, jewellery, make-up are so material, superficial, trivial, I thought. If the power of dance is that it is transformative and ephemeral, why should it need these physical markers?

Performance day.
This morning I woke up at the usual 4am. But I didn't open my laptop or think about what's for breakfast. I sat down with a cup of tea, alone, in a quiet room, and polished the jewellery I will wear while dancing today. It was beautifully quiet, all things asleep; all the scrubbing and shining felt almost like a ritual - as if I'd just prepared a puja thali. I felt oddly calm - very rare when I'm in that chaotic room where my child's toys and our laundry and ironing clothes lie perennially scattered around.

There's a very famous line from a hallowed ancient text that's quoted by classical dancers ad nauseum. It goes something like this: "Dance is made of four parts: angika (the body), vaachika (sound/ music), aahaarya (costume & make-up), and sattvika (meaning/ emotion)."

I never got why that third thing was so crucial - certainly it wasn't at par with the other three? Clothes, jewellery, make-up are so material, superficial, trivial, I thought. If the power of dance is that it is transformative and ephemeral, why should it need these physical markers?

But today, I know why. Like a puja thali, my jewellery box is also a toolkit of sorts. So is my makeup bag. When I'll put that thick pancake on my face today, I will not be able to recognise Swaati in the mirror. When I'll paint those exaggerated fish-shaped black lines around my eyes, that expression they usually wear, will be overwritten. As I will slowly wear all these small objects on my person, the person I see everyday in the mirror, will be invisible when I look into it now. The transformation into the dancer will be complete. I will step out of my house, loaded with the weight of my aahaarya, but totally free to become any character I want to be.