Bharadhanatyam 🪷

 Bharatanatyam has always been more than just a dance for me it is a journey into the soul, a way to live stories that have existed for centuries. From the very beginning, I found myself mesmerized by its rhythm, its gestures, and its profound capacity to convey emotions without a single word. But my journey was not without struggle. The earliest days were a challenge, especially when it came to Abhinaya. Expressing the inner world of a character, conveying their emotions, felt elusive. No matter how hard I tried, something always seemed missing.

It was when I started watching Asian dramas, the retellings of Ramayana, Mahabharata, and other stories filled with deep emotions, that things began to shift. I found myself captivated, not just by the stories, but by the rawness of feeling, the power of subtle expressions, and the honesty in their portrayals. Slowly, I began to absorb the emotions into my own being, letting them move through me rather than trying to control them.

The characters I most often embody are powerful yet delicate, intense yet compassionate. The male figures—Rama, Krishna, Muruga—taught me valor, devotion, and grace. In their Abhinaya, I became aware of strength in stillness, courage in gesture. Then there are the motherly figures—Parvati holding Ganesha, Meenakshi, Annapoorani through which I discover a depth of Karuna, a tenderness that flows effortlessly. My Guru often tells me that Karuna Bhava comes to me naturally. She says that when I sit on stage, serving Lord Krishna or Lord Mahadev as Annapoorani, my face does not have to force the emotion; it rises on its own. I do not even think about the posture or the hands—the feeling simply takes over. It is in these moments that I understand the essence of Bharatanatyam: living the character fully, letting them inhabit you so completely that the distinction between the dancer and the deity fades.

Durga awakens a fierce power in me—I lift my leg, tilt my head, stamp the Asura with a force that is almost uncontrollable. In Meenakshi, I embrace Veera bhava with intensity, and in every male character, I learn the quiet strength that anchors the story. On stage, I am not Aarthi; I am Parvati, Krishna, Meenakshi, Annapoorani. And the most astonishing part is that this presence continues to linger even after the performance ends. Walking off stage, when the applause washes over me, the transition back to “myself” feels almost alien, as if I have lived another life entirely.

There are other nuances, too. I cannot smile without meaning it, and it troubles me when a fake smile is expected. My Guru’s words echo in my mind: “You cannot fake what you do not feel.” And so I remain authentic in every gesture, every glance, every emotion. The audience sees not a performance but a living, breathing embodiment of myth and devotion.

Through Bharatanatyam, I have learned that the dance is not about perfection—it is about truth. It is about surrendering to the characters, letting them breathe through you, and discovering a profound connection to every story, every emotion, every divine presence. It is a continuous journey of discovery, of understanding myself through the eyes of those I portray, and of finding a space where art, devotion, and life converge in a single, living moment.