A few minutes before my arangetram, every nerve in my body was a live wire. I was hyperventilating, fidgeting, and snapping at everyone. I love dancing, really. But from past experiences, I knew that stage fright can cause terrible things to happen around me, so I desperately wanted the whole thing to finish quickly.

By some awesome combination of good fortune, preparation, and the blessings of my Guru and God, I made it to the end of my performance without tripping, slipping, fainting, bleeding, or facing any major catastrophes. As I bowed my head before the audience to the concluding words of the Mangalam, every one of my nerves was burnt out. I was so zonked. And then my reaction was, “Huh? What just happened?” The entire three hour spectacle had zoomed by like a vehicle well above the speed limit on the freeway, leaving me, disbelieving, in its exhaust fumes. That was it? The rational part of my brain replied snootily, “What? Did you really expect it to last forever? Don’t be silly.” But it had happened much too quickly! After all, hadn’t I put in a year’s worth of preparation, no, make that nine years, into making this day happen? “Well, that’s not fair,” I thought. The fact that these three hours had lasted just as long as any other three hours was entirely preposterous.

I was enormously relieved and euphoric that my arangetram had gone well, but even as I stood before a standing ovation of 400 people, as I touched the feet of my musicians and Guru, as I received high fives from my friends and family, I was still searching for that sense of accomplishment. This unpleasant void lingered well into the next day as I flew into Pennsylvania for the start of college.

As I write this, it has been two weeks since my arangetram. Perhaps due to hanging around in an academic environment full of beings much more intelligent and mature than me, I myself have become a bit wiser. I have reflected, pondered, and ruminated (instead of doing my organic chemistry homework). The dust has settled. And I’ve now come to an important realization: an arangetram is so much more than just the few shining moments of dancing on stage. It is an entire journey, not just a destination. My arangetram actually encompassed every day, every hour, and every minute that I spent working towards it. It includes each one of the several thousand times I practiced my Varnam, my abhinaya becoming a little bit more sophisticated every time. It includes every time I’ve done Jathiswaram, learning how to derive enjoyment from pure nritta (even when it hurts). It includes every Padam in which I’ve assumed the role of a lovelorn nayika, shed all inhibitions, and bared my soul. It embodies all of this and demonstrates the evolution of my skill as a dancer. Aha…there’s that sense of accomplishment I had been seeking.

A bharatanatyam arangetram is more than just a day—it is every ounce of strain and every drop of sweat that has been spent in practicing this beautiful art. It consists of every bit of energy and dedication that is invested and every amount of skill and confidence that is reaped. So, one day, long after the traces of red Sharpie finally fade from my feet, long after I finally decide to take out the bharatanatyam songs from my iPod, I may realize that I have become a more dedicated, disciplined, and confident person. I can then attribute that to the magnificent journey of growth that has been my Arangetram.

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