A Measure of Thankfulness

Sunday July 23, 2006


DAWN. When the sun is just beginning to burnish the horizon. An eight-year-old girl is in rapt concentration, holding a rose petal to her heart, as the chant of a hundred voices resonates amidst the glow of oil lamps, praising and seeking benediction.

She offers the petal, picks up another, and offers it; repeating this simple act of devotion until the prayer is over.

Two other youngsters wave the arathi – the container of burning camphor – to signal the conclusion of the prayer.

All eyes are on this simple but profound ritual: the soft amber light moving in a circle against the early dawn. It ushers in the light of knowledge and wisdom.

And so, another Sunday at the Temple of Fine Arts (TFA) in Kuala Lumpur begins. The open spaces near the shrine fill up with dance students. You hear the tuning of the violin and the veena and the drumming of the tabla. Then the brilliant sound of the nattuvangam (cymbals) heralds the sound of stamping feet.

It is the beginning of a busy week of bharatanatyam, odissi, kuchipudi and contemporary dance classes; singing and music lessons both Carnatic and Hindustani; and rehearsals for a forthcoming fund-raising event.

For 25 years, and under the guidance of the founder, Swami Shantanand Saraswathi, the dance and music teachers at TFA have painstakingly, consistently, moved towards the ideal of serving the community through the arts. Arts practitioners will know that this is an uphill task. It requires self-motivation, faith, and sacrifice.

And yet, because of Swamiji’s deep love for dance and music, and because of his uncommon wisdom and compassion, many students have discovered a connection between a deeper part of themselves and the spirit of the songs and dances they are learning.

It is a connection that allows the student to experience a glimmer of the luminosity that is Indian classical dance and music; to grasp, albeit fleetingly, a layer of understanding about the vast network of myths, legends, and spiritual history that makes up Asia’s cultural heritage.

Case in point: I had come to Indian classical dance at the “never-too-late” age of 28. Nothing had prepared me for the sharp contrast between the highly stressed and materialistic corporate world I was living in then and this rare and nourishing shrine.

Two months into bharatanatyam classes with my teacher, Vatsala Sivadas (one of the founding directors of TFA), and it struck me one evening that, for the first time in my life, here was someone who was giving me something without asking for anything in return.

The teaching of dance was the vehicle for this spirit of giving and sharing.

Much later, I was taught a short dance choreographed by her and set to one of Swamiji’s songs in praise of the Goddess Lakshmi; I performed it during the Navaratri festival of that year (the nine-day long festival celebrating the goddesses Durga, Lakshmi and Saraswathi).

What was it like? There was a deep sense of connection between the mind, the imagination, the emotions, the heart and the body. It seemed to me that I could communicate with the ethereal world through dance. A door had opened. I was engulfed in thankfulness.

In a scene from the Ramayana (the Sanskrit epic narrating the story of the abduction of Sita, wife of Prince Rama) adapted by Swamiji in 1992, the monkey Hanuman is seen singing of his adoration for Prince Rama.

All of a sudden, something tells him that the one he has been thinking of so deeply has come. He turns around, and there before him are Rama and Rama’s younger brother, Lakshmana.

He rushes forward with palms together to touch Rama’s feet with his forehead, and then, offering himself as servant, he hoists the princes onto his powerful shoulders and sets off to find Sita.

Each night, after I had doffed my guise as the sage Vishwamitra, I would watch this scene, overcome with emotion. I did not understand the emotion then, but I do now; it was thankfulness. It told me that the one I sought would come, what was needed would be given, and my thirst would be quenched.

I was not alone; throughout the performances of the Ramayana in Malaysia, Singapore and India, it was always this scene with its sincere voice of devotion and celebration that moved and inspired performers and audiences alike.

It was not just the dance drama and the story. It was the collective effort culminating in that stage performance.

As with all the other stage productions of the TFA, Swamiji gave everyone a chance to give of themselves in whatever way they could: dancing, music making, designing costumes, doing backstage work, painting backdrops, cooking.

There were opportunities to learn, to give, to create, to express, to experience and, at the end of the day, to take a measure of thankfulness home.

Thankfulness is a beautiful thing! It gives meaning and clarity to what has gone on before and also to what is to come.

In 1981, Swamiji lit a lamp, offered a prayer, and declared the Temple of Fine Arts open. Its ideal: to share this light with all. It was a simple act but its profundity has illuminated many lives and will continue to do so for a long, long time.