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A
conch shell blows, sunset, and a thin mask of beauty,
garnered only through the crevices. And the last
bell, dinner, hastens the final spices of form and
expression to meld with the food and fatigue which
will fill the dancers till morning.
And if it is Sunday, the morning tranquility bursts
in vivid song and scamper of the local village children
unloaded from the Nrityagram van. They have dressed
to dance, to make music from motions trained already,
at their tender ages. They soak up every sound and
pose. They listen and watch, repeat determinedly,
let yoga lull their prancing bodies, then eat freely
and rest with the music of the older children's
performances. Tapping the tala with tiny feet, their
serenity remains until the van is once again stuffed
full with their satisfied bodies and contagious
chatter, about next Sunday or the hope of a surprise
Nrityagram demonstration in their school. Eyes shuttering,
a few of those sweaty bodies may see themselves,
in dream, decked in sparkling costumes and magically
whirling in wonderful recreation of the dance.
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