My Own Hero

The year was 2008. Imagine a timid, tubby young girl with goofy spectacles. That was I, Aathishree. I was in third grade at that time. My parents were full-time doctors, and I was an only child. So, loneliness was a constant companion. My mother got me into a Carnatic music class at a prestigious performing arts academy called Vidhya Vaani to keep me occupied in the evenings after school. The room in which I had my music lessons was opposite a Bharathanatyam (a form of Indian classical dance) class. I remember being entranced by the bhaav (dance expressions) of the dancing girls and the sound of their resonating anklets to the beats. For a month, I watched them with awe, taking in every tiny detail of their steps and movements. Finally, I asked my parents to enrol me in the dance class. I do not remember my experience of the first Bharathanatyam lesson, but I will never forget the impression the teacher made on me. 

Sampath sir was an accomplished dancer-turned-teacher. He was a dark man of average height with shiny black hair curving towards his shoulders. In every way, Sampath sir fit the criteria for a professional dancer. He only wore matching pairs of kurta pyjamas. His namaskaram (South Indian greeting/seeking blessing) was artistic and animated. So were all his gestures - poised and assured. More importantly, he walked or rather carried himself gracefully.  

His countenance though bore a tale of its own. His clean-shaven face had multiple dark spots. He always had this smug look which made his lips stretch thin. To me, his eyes were as blank as an unused blackboard. On the whole, the man looked like a serial killer. Unsurprisingly his attitude complemented his appearance. 

It would be an understatement to call him a mean teacher. His teaching style can be explained simply like so: Do what I say, or get lost! His disciplining tactics were even worse. If we were late to class, we were not asked to stand out but were beaten on the legs with the thazha-kattai (a thick wooden stick used to hit on a small plank to produce beats). If we cried from the pain, he only beat us more. If our steps were wrong, we were sent outside and made to repeat the same steps at least a hundred times. Even if some students performed really well, he would never acknowledge their efforts. We all trembled at the sight of Sampath sir because the man's temper knew no bounds. 

Despite such cruelty, the students never complained about him to their parents or discontinued his classes. Sampath sir was, like I said, quite talented. So no one missed the chance of learning under him, and everyone craved his validation. I was no different from the others. 

Every year, we - Sampath sir's entourage - would give at least two performances at public gatherings. Every student needed to participate. That year, our first performance was at a temple for a poojai (ritual). Sir had given us crystal clear instructions on the Do(s) and Don't(s) during the performance. Among these was one crucial rule: no one was allowed to take pictures/videos/recordings of the performance. Sampath sir, not the temple authorities, put this rule forth. What for? No clue. Ordinarily, every teacher would be thrilled to have his/her students on tape. Then again, Sampath sir was no ordinary teacher, so no questions were asked.

On the day of the announcement of the upcoming temple performance, I sat my father down and pleaded with him to not click pictures. If Sampath sir's ego was sky-high, my father's reached out into the great hollows in space. He detested Sampath sir for his rude behaviour towards his pupils. Still, because of my insistence, he empathetically controlled his objections against my teacher. I was aware of these facts, which was why I needed my father to 'behave'. But he argued that my teacher's conditions were silly. I was performing for the first time in a temple, so my father wanted to capture the moments. After arguing with him for days, I finally persuaded my father to drop the idea of taking photographs during the performance. All may have seemed well after that, yet I was hysterical. 

On the day of the temple poojai, my father assured me that he would refrain from even touching his phone. Nevertheless, he made a request to take pictures before I went on stage. I gave in and posed for some clicks under the backdrop of the temple Gopuram (the entrance tower). When the photo session was over, I noticed Sampath sir giving me that cold stare indicating his anger. I convinced myself not to worry. Technically no rules were broken since the pictures were taken before the performance began. 

Our performance started. The musicians played their instruments, Sampath sir sang the Jati(s) (vocalizing of the beats), and we danced. From the very beginning, my eyes searched for my father. I was still worried that he would break the rules. There were lots of other parents whose cameras flashed everywhere. To my relief, I spotted my father amidst the crowd, hands in his pockets and tapping his feet to the music. Pride was written all across his face. Then my eyes wandered off to where Sampath sir was seated on stage. My eyes met that cold stare of his again. My heart began to race. 

What now?! No rule was broken! Why is he angry? 

Wait. Oh no. 

Assuming I was making some horrible mistake with my step sequences or my posture, I decided to concentrate on my performance. When the dance came to an end, we all did our Namaskaram to God and to Sampath sir. Then I ran down towards my parents. They embraced me and told me how well I had danced. Even some members of the audience came up to the other girls and me to congratulate us. I was pleased with myself. Though I knew there wouldn’t be any appreciation from Sampath sir, I couldn't wait to go to class the next day and witness that slight hint of approval in his eyes. 

However, the next evening, the atmosphere in the class was anything from what I had imagined. All the girls, young and old, stood in straight rows and columns, their heads down and hands to their sides. Tensed, I scurried across the room to join the girls, but Sampath sir's booming voice called me out. I stopped in my tracks, steadied my breathing, and walked up to him. He was seated, as usual, legs crossed on the floor, with the thazha-kattai placed in front of him. Without even looking at me, he asked in a hissing, low voice if my father had clicked pictures during the performance the day before. Somewhere within me, I knew this was coming, so I answered 'no' in a calm voice. At that, he hit the kattai on the marble floor and screamed at me, calling me a liar. Taken aback, I answered with a stutter saying that my father only took some pictures of me before the dance but never during. This time, the kattai hit my feet. Not once. Not twice. Several times. I screamed in agony and begged him to stop but in vain. At that moment, I realized that maybe he mistook someone else for my father. I tried to reason with him. He only got more furious and began to hit me harder. I decided to stay silent and endure the pain. Eventually, he stopped, told me to bring my father the next day, and then shooed me to the back of the class. 

I don't remember anything else from that day other than going home in tears with red, swollen feet and telling my parents what had gone down with Sampath sir. Of course, my father was enraged! He stormed into the academy the next day, walked straight into Sampath sir's room and shut the door. To this day, I don't know what happened inside the room. But when my father came out, he told me that he had removed me from the academy. 

To be honest, my feelings were mixed. Though I was happy that my father had stood up for me, I was still upset that I could not convince Sampath sir that I had done nothing wrong. This was the first time I saw my father as my hero. But this was also the first time I witnessed the making of a coward. I felt weak. In hindsight, I know that it was ambitious of my 8-year-old self to want to defend myself in such a situation. But at that time, it was a moment of shame for me. To make amends, I took a vow that day. A vow I have never once broken since; a vow that I will be my own hero.