By Puja Lalmalani
If Vrinda’s lucky, the trip from Munster, Indiana, to Rajagopalan’s home in Oak Brook takes only an hour and 45 minutes. But if Vrinda hits heavy traffic, the trek (which she’s made at least once weekly over the years) can take up to a half hour longer. Priya, 18, is the middle daughter and the first to present her arangatrem. She started learning when she was 4 and her older sister, Kavitha, was 6. Their sister Shobha, now 13, also takes class.
“Tai di di tai, tai tai di di tai, tai tai tai di di tai”: the syllables of Rajagopalan’s singing are a language of their own. Hema Aunty’s voice climbs up the stairs from the basement studio, into the back hallway of her home. I take off my shoes, as I have so many times before, and place them next to many other pairs.
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Women initially performed the dance, but as time went on men also began to dance it. When bharata natyam started moving from the temple to the stage, the function of the dance remained the same: to elevate the dancer and the audience to a higher level of spiritual consciousness. Though learning bharata natyam is physically challenging because of its vast, intricate vocabulary of hand gestures, complicated rhythms and footwork, and precisely choreographed neck, eye, chin, and waist movements, the most difficult aspect, Rajagopalan says, is the mental and emotional preparation: “Is the dancer capable of inspiring those spiritual feelings in the audience?” The final arangatrem item, the pure-dance tillana, requires great physical endurance and grace, and the 40- to 50-minute varnam is traditionally considered the arangatrem’s piece de resistance because the accompaniment is sung slowly and the dancer must portray the lovelorn heroine’s “myriad of emotions.” But in Rajagopalan’s mind the most difficult piece is the padam, based entirely on subtle expression.
It took a couple years to learn the basic steps. The group class had 10 or 12 students, almost all girls of Indian descent. Over the years students would come and go, but some were regulars, and we eventually learned full dance pieces. We grew up together, encouraging and teaching one another as well as competing for attention and praise. When we turned 16 and got drivers’ licenses, we drove ourselves to class and back. We started taking private lessons with Hema Aunty, we performed together, and one by one girls started giving their arangatrems.
Priya’s charcoal-lined eyes look up, searching for the steps, then shift back and forth between Rajagopalan and the musicians. “You have to know because I won’t know,” says Rajagopalan, neither upset nor comforting. Vrinda watches with a worried look. Also dressed in a salvar kameez, she’s videotaping the rehearsal. Tonight Priya will review her mistakes. Her younger sister, wearing jeans and a tank top, sunglasses hanging from her pocket, sits quietly next to her mother playing a Gameboy, glancing up occasionally to watch her sister. One day she too wants to give her arangatrem.
Traditionally the arangatrem marks the end of the dancer’s first stage of training. “It’s like getting out of kindergarten,” says Rajagopalan’s daughter, Krithika, who teaches dance, performs professionally, and is executive director of Natya Dance Theatre. The performance “is a stepping stone to the next level of learning.” But for Americans, Priya says, “it’s more of an ending. We tend to move on to another goal, to another accomplishment. For me, it will be a completion–it’ll be some kind of closure.” The word itself comes from the Tamil language: arangam means “stage” and yatrem “ascending.” The first written reference to the arangatrem can be found in the fifth-century Tamil play Silappadiharam.
