The rhythm that always is

- Divya Anand
e-mail: div.lavendergirl@gmail.com

July 8, 2025

Devi was frustrated beyond words; they never managed to truly understand her. Sometimes she herself didn't - but that didn't mean someone smarter shouldn't. She reminded herself she wasn't asking for much. Just a deep connection. One that feels like a cool breeze, refreshing. But finding it had become a serious challenge. Why did everything lose its charm and appear shallow after the details appear? Shouldn't romance be like some of those classic odes that thrilled her every time she read them? The rude sound of her mobile ringing shook her from her reverie. It was Mom - she wanted the details.

Devi's mother lived in her hometown, caring for her ailing husband. Devi, her only daughter, had had a somewhat confusing childhood - not from a lack of love, but from abrupt and unexpected political changes. Her early teens were full of small comforts and bright dreams, until her father's business spiralled into debt and everything changed. The school trips stopped, school fees had backlogs, and by the time she turned eighteen, Devi was working side gigs to keep the family afloat. Still, she was bright. She excelled in her studies, earned scholarships, and landed a respectable job - though true financial stability was still a distant shore. Her father's health had worsened, and her mother, already weathered by years of caretaking and financial strain, now clung fiercely to the one thing she could still hope for: securing a good match for Devi. It wasn't pressure exactly. It was love - the kind that worries too much and lets it show.

But this match, Chirag - was not going to work.

"You confuse me. Nothing I do seems to please you," his voice rang sharply in her memory. She let the phone ring. She didn't have the energy to explain. Not yet. Instead, she grabbed her sling bag and stepped out. The beach would help. It always did.

It was almost 5pm, and the shoreline was beginning to pulse with evening life. Joggers padded along the wet sand, some on the footpath, pushing against their own inertia, families strolled with ice creams, and vendors offered slices of raw mango dusted with chili and salt, or cones of boiled peas with a dash of lemon. Children shrieked and splashed in the surf. The golden light poured over everything - bright but forgiving.

The salty breeze teased her hair. The warmth of the sand beneath her feet was soothing, while she carried her sandals in her hand. It was as though the earth was giving her a foot reflexology massage.

And then, she heard it. The faint, rhythmic sound of bells. Familiar. Exciting. Calling.

Her heart gave a small leap. She followed it, weaving through the crowd, toward the beach gallery and into a quieter compound. There, under the slanting rays of the evening sun, a group of young girls in matching brown uniforms moved in synchronized steps. Chalangai - ankle bells - jingled in unison as they danced to the sharp, measured beats struck by their teacher's stick on a wooden platform. Bharatanatyam!

Devi stood still, watching. The sight gripped her chest with something between joy and ache.

It wasn't just a practice; it was a process. One of repetition, of discipline, of surrender. A sacred balance of body, mind and soul. She had known that world. No! It had once been her world.

A swell of memory rose. Hours spent in dusty halls, sweating through steps, her teacher's voice cutting through fatigue: "Aramandi Enga!" The smell of jasmine pinned to braids, the laughter during water breaks, the quiet pride in her parents' eyes at every stage performance. The sense of identity it gave her - something rooted, graceful, fierce.

She hadn't danced in years.

She suddenly realized how much she had missed it, not just the art, but the clarity and strength it gave her. In dance, you didn't have to explain yourself. You became yourself. Fully.

It wasn't just the steps she remembered, it was the way the world melted into rhythm. How the precise expressions, the ‘abhinaya,' would awaken her spirit. It was how she lived the stories that she was portraying.

On instinct, Devi dropped her sandals, brushed her loose hair into a bun and moved ahead. She approached the group gently, locking eyes with the teacher who gave her a nod of permission.

She stepped into the semicircle of dancing girls and joined them. The familiar beats came back, hesitant at first, then rushing forward like an old friend who had never really left. Her body knew what to do. Her heart followed.

And just like that, she was home.

Dusk had begun to settle by the time Devi boarded an auto-rickshaw to head back. Her hair was slightly damp at the temples, her kurta clung to her skin, and her feet were sandy, but she felt light. Lighter than she had in weeks.

Her phone buzzed again, and this time she picked up. Her mother's voice, sharp with concern, quickly softened when Devi spoke.

"No, I haven't told you about Chirag yet. I will... soon. But can we talk about Appa instead? What did the doctor say this morning?"

She listened as the wind rushed past her in the open auto, carrying with it the fading sounds of the beach. Her mother spoke, tired but grateful. They weren't solving anything tonight, but something had shifted - like the tide turning.

As she hung up, Devi smiled quietly to herself.

The rest of her life might still feel uncertain - full of broken matches, fragile expectations, and a blurry future. But now she remembered something essential.

Art! That rhythm never faded. It was a connection that needed no explanation, no permission. It was the rhythm that had always been - And always would be her first romance.

Divya Anand Kasturi is a Bharatanatyam artist based out of Hulimavu and regularly performs for dance festivals and also trains children. She holds a Master's degree in Bharatanatyam and a Bachelor's degree in Engineering She is also a freelance software consultant. She loves writing poetry and short stories and is a published author of a book of poems, "All About Sweet Nothings". She is presently exploring interesting concepts via an amalgamation of dance and poetry.

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