It is difficult to choose just one teacher who’s changed my life. Several names come to mind.

The first is my mother.

Next, my guru Shri Pratap Pawar — the person who laid the foundation for what I am today. The one who gave me the will to be what I am.

Peter Brook, the theatre genius, is the third name on this list — a man who, by his sheer presence and vision, took me into the magical world of theatre-making.

Last — but certainly not the least — my ghungroos , the percussive ankle bells that are an extension of my self. My second skin. The time and energy a dancer invests in footwork, body movements, makes these tiny brass bells — tied neatly to sturdy white cord — crucial to his existence, to his life on stage.

I live in a fast-paced city — London — where sounds of nature, sounds that remind you of faraway places or the past are hard to come by. My ghungroos help me recreate sounds that lead me to a doorway to many memories and connections. A threshold from where I can listen to the sound that belongs to temples, to stories, to mythology. Sounds that are sacred. The bells let me fly, across time and memory zones, and be firmly grounded at the same time. No matter where the head and the heart travel, the feet are on the ground.

The bells have a voice. And a dancer, who is also a storyteller, has to be a good listener. That’s one of the first things I learnt from the ghungroos . This brings to my mind the relationship that Pandit Birju Maharaj has with his ghungroos . You see him and you know that he is having an exchange with them. It’s a spiritual relationship. I think it’s something about that generation — the same that my parents belong to. They are good listeners — they aren’t overeager to make themselves heard. That is what is wrong with the world today. No one wants to listen, to absorb, to feel.

There comes a point in every performance when the dancer’s voice and that of his bells become one. That doesn’t happen overnight. And adaptability plays a big role there. When I am dancing to a full orchestra, for instance, I have to match my rhythm to that of the musicians. When I am on my own — without any musical accompaniment — there is complete stillness around me. And I have to fill that silence with the eloquence of the bells. The success depends on my equation with that which is wrapped around my ankles.

My ghungroos are also at the centre of a very important family ritual. My mother and my aunt tie the brass bells to the string that I buy from a hardware shop in Tooting, a district in south London. I have one set for rehearsals, and another for concerts. (A third and backup set is safely locked inside my parents’ cupboard.) And the average lifespan of my ghungroos is about six months. So when it’s time for a new set, the two ladies get together in our house. I order food for them; I also pick up Bollywood DVDs. And they string the bells as they chat, eat, laugh and watch movies. I keep thinking that I should learn to do this myself, but I remember that when I started driving, I became the in-house chauffeur.

My mother and my aunt have also made ghungroos for other dancers — only on request. Their work is meticulous: they string lighter bells for the set I use for shows. It is always better to rehearse with something heavier.

I like to keep my ghungroos close to me. There was a time when I would have them in my hand luggage — in a bag which also has my skipping rope and stretching band. But I grew tired of explaining to airport security what these are. A cluster of metal bells makes them suspicious and I also have a Muslim name. Now my ghungroos travel in my check-in bags, but the questions haven’t stopped.

(As told to Aditi Sengupta)

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