If there’s one thing that I don’t like about the Kala Ghoda festival, it’s that it makes me wish I could be at three different places at the same time. For the last two days I’ve been running from one program to another, usually arriving sometime mid-way between the second show which usually leaves me desperately craning my neck and standing on my toes so that I can see over the heads of the crowds. It usually doesn’t help.

(Note to self: Grow taller)

But really, I found myself wishing that there could be some way to stop the tallest people from standing right in front of the stage and leaving all the poor vertically challenged souls (like me) with only a partial view of the stage, and cursing their VC genes. Wouldn’t it be great if seating were determined by height? So if you were over six feet tall and wearing headgear which added another foot to your height, you would sit in the back row and yet, have the perfect view of the stage because only shorter people would be allowed to sit in front of you. See? That way everybody’s happy!

Coming back to the performances.

I reached the amphitheatre about mid-way through the Odissi recital by Jhelum Paranjpe and her troupe, and until it struck me that I could actually climb up the steps of the amphitheatre, I watched about five minutes of six pieces of elaborate headgear bob up, down and sideways all together.

When wisdom and a better view dawned, I came to the conclusion that Odissi is such a pretty dance form - all feminity and coy smiles and sweetness and light. Which might probably explain why the sight of the two male dancers in that group of women, disturbed me on a very fundamental level. Oh they were good – performing all the abhinaya and the mudras and the curvaceous movements with practiced ease - no doubt about it, but it was just a *little* disconcerting to see them dance the exact same steps as all the female dancers and with the same amount of…feminity?

The Dasavatar (ten incarnations of Vishnu) piece that they - the three male dancers - performed towards the end dispelled all my ignorant notions of how Odissi was a purely feminine dance form. Those men displayed energy, and effervesence and grace and there was nothing feminine about it. They were marvelous as they went from Matsya through to Varaha, playful as Krishna, serene as Buddha and downright frightening as Narasimha.

Jhelum then performed a solo on a hymn by Salbeg - a Muslim poet who worshipped a Hindu god – and it was beautifully done. Jhelum was graceful and wonderfully emotive as she acted out the pain of the poet, who was not allowed to worship at the temple because he was a Muslim, and how he longed for his lord to grant him deliverance from his crippled earthly body.

The last performance was a pure dance piece titled Moksha, in which all the dancers performed. It was an awesome sight to see as ten pairs of ghungroo-laden feet danced, ten wrists delicately bent and ten heads gracefully swayed along with the music in perfect unison.

So much prettiness!

I think I shall now have a perfectly legitimate grudge against my parents for a) never sending me to any dance classes and b) passing on the vertically-challenged gene to the sole family member who could’ve done without it.