Appreciation — April 21, 2014, 1:33 pm

Vara, A Blessing

Khyentse Norbu’s love poem to Old India

Still from Vara, A Blessing © Moving Temple Pictures

Still from Vara, A Blessing © Moving Temple Pictures

During the winter of 2010, my mother and I were in Kathmandu. Our friend Craig was there too; he was studying Classical Indian dance.

Craig and I were both students of the same Tibetan Buddhist guru, whose formal title is Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche. His secular name is Khyentse Norbu. (In this article, I’ll call him Norbu.)

It was Norbu who had told Craig to study dance. He had asked some scholars whom Craig should study under, and they had named a man in Kathmandu. I thought it was a prank. Norbu had a mischievous sense of humor. For example, he had a senior student named Ronald whom he often teased. Once, at a teaching attended by five hundred students, Norbu made Ronald wear a beret. People who knew Ronald recognized it as a joke, but strangers reasonably presumed that Ronald wore a beret because he was a jackass.

My mother and I were sitting in on ceremonies at a monastery. One morning, Craig came in with a very stinky man. I don’t often mind body odor, but this man stunk so badly it gave me a migraine. Later, on the temple steps, Craig introduced the man as his dance teacher. He was a fifty-year-old Nepali. Though he spoke very good English, he spoke it so quickly that I couldn’t understand him.

There, on the temple steps, I asked Craig to dance. He said, “Argham, padyam, pushpe.” With each of the seven offering substances—drinking water, washing water, flowers—he struck a pose. He was trembling. He wobbled. The dance teacher looked humiliated. I thought, “My guru is really funny.”

The dance teacher invited my mother and me to his own weekly performance at Kathmandu’s five-star hotel. He asked if there was a particular deity’s dance I’d like to see. I said, “Manjushri?” He said he didn’t have a dance for Manjushri. I said, “Vajrayogini?”

At the performance, a young woman played a typewriter-sized harmonium and Craig’s dance teacher did long dances. Sometimes the young musician sang. I wanted to be moved by the performance, but I was bored. It went on for over an hour: one man, Indian dancing. For the finale, the teacher said he would do Vajrayogini.  

He went in back for five minutes. He came out in drag. He wore a gold crown and red lipstick. I really wanted to appreciate this, but I found myself having to stifle a laugh. The dance just looked like a lot of poses. It did not move me. Craig had told me several times that this man was one of the last people who knew these forms, that he was a master of a dying art, but I wasn’t buying it.

After the performance, the teacher sat with us and said he had been taught to dance by his mother. The memory made him cry. The waiter came, and the dance teacher ordered a mango lassi, explaining, “The soles of my feet are hot, and I have ordered the mango lassi to cool them; that has always worked in the past.” He wasn’t joking. In deference to Craig, I had been suppressing laughter for over a week, but the mango lassi for the teacher’s feet was too much. I finally broke: I laughed in his face. Astonished by my rudeness, the dance teacher ignored me and made conversation with my mother.

Khyentse Norbu’s third movie, Vara, A Blessing, debuts at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York City on Monday, April 21. It’s a love story, but it is also a love poem to classical Indian dance and its traditional practitioners, the devadasis.

A while back, through his secretary, I asked Norbu what drew him to classical Indian dance. She posed the question and sent a recording of his answer.

He said, “Discipline. Timelessness, even though it’s probably one of the oldest forms of dance. The spiritual aspect of it, and sensuality. And the contents of the dance are almost always surrendering to higher—I don’t know—god, or value, or state.”

“What are you trying to express through that?”

“Nothing specific, apart from what I have just mentioned.”

Norbu, a Tibetan Buddhist Rinpoche, received his religious training while in exile in the Indian state of Sikkim, and apprenticed as a filmmaker with Bernardo Bertolucci. His first film, The Cup, won the Audience Award at the Sundance Film Festival, and was Bhutan’s official entry to the 1999 Academy Awards. His second, Travellers and Magicians, was an official selection at the Venice Film Festival.

Set in a small village in India and filmed in Sri Lanka, Vara is about a dancer named Lila (Shohana Goswami). She wears sun-faded saris in primary colors. Her hair, pulled into a long braid, is often frizzy around her temples. She is a master flirt: playful all the time. She is girlish and imperfect, with soft, lineless hands and very short fingernails. Her face can change from girlish to sexual in a moment. She has a very small nose, full cheeks, and enormous eyes. She embodies a form of beauty we don’t often see portrayed in film or in magazines: she is wholesome, sweet, sexual, playful, and feminine.

Lila is the teenaged daughter of a devadasi who runs a small local dance school. Her mother is poor. To greatly oversimplify: devadasis, or temple dancers, have a low position in Indian society. They were once respected, like ballet dancers in the West. They had patrons, and the children from these patrons were trained in dance. However, when the British came, they misunderstood the tradition as prostitution (it has explicitly erotic aspects), and it was outlawed. Without a position in society, many devadasis in fact turned to prostitution, and now, even in India, the tradition remains generally misconstrued. In travel guides, you will find devadasis described as temple prostitutes.

Prakesh, the wealthiest man in Lila’s village, is referred to by villagers as “the landlord.” He is a bit past marriageable age. He is overweight, he has bad skin, and he seems to have no interest in women. He just likes—in an explicit homage to the first eleven minutes of Satyajit Ray’s Charulatta—to gaze out his window through a telescope.

One day, his lens falls upon Lila. He is smitten. The local matchmaker sees Prakesh watching Lila. He gets the idea that he will fan the flame of Prakesh’s lust through Lila, and then find him a suitable marriage partner. (As the poor, fatherless daughter of a devadasi, Lila is not suitable for marriage.)

Still from Vara, A Blessing © Moving Temple Pictures

Still from Vara, A Blessing © Moving Temple Pictures

Meanwhile, Lila becomes more devoted to the Hindu god Krishna. At a secret place in the forest, before a stone statue of the god, she offers lamps and flowers and dances. These are traditional forms of worship. But she also deviates from prescribed methods. She speaks to the statue of Krishna as a lover might speak under the covers. She says, “I saw a Bollywood movie and I thought of you,” then shows the statue some Bollywood dance moves. Goswami is a terrific dancer. I wished Norbu had done one of those Jean-Luc Godard sequences where the director just stops the whole movie for a dance.

While Lila’s relationship with Krishna develops, her friendship with a low-caste boy named Shyam grows, too. Shyam is a flute player and an apprentice sculptor. His story is borrowed from a short story by the writer Sunil Gangopadhyay, and it echoes Lila’s, expressing, like hers, the arbitrariness of categories like high and low. Shyam is a dalit. He wants to learn to sculpt, so that he can move to the city and escape the tyrannies of village life. He asks a Muslim sculptor to teach him the art, and he asks Lila to be his model. In modeling for Shyam, she glimpses Krishna himself in the boy. Norbu shows this in brief, highly stylized sequences: for instance Krishna brushes his feet through a river for a moment, then Lila returns to ordinary life with Shyam. As he learns more about her form, he asks her to take off her clothes, so that he can see her clearly. Perhaps you can foresee the trouble that develops.

Lila’s devotion to Krishna changes the way she sees Shyam. Her desire for both takes her a bit away from worldly life. In showing how this happens—how physical desire can lead to spiritual experience; how a lower caste boy can make a statue worthy of worship—Norbu dramatizes the relationship between desire and devotion, and blurs the categories of sacred, secular, and profane. And I finally had a glimpse of why Craig had wanted to study with his seemingly ridiculous dance teacher, and why Norbu had wanted him to.

Vara, A Blessing debuts April 21 at the Tribeca Film Festival in Manhattan. It shows throughout the week at the Bow Tie Cinemas Chelsea 8 theater.

Amie Barrodale’s first short story collection, You Are Having a Good Time, will be published by FSG.

Share
Single Page

More from Amie Barrodale:

From the December 2014 issue

Growing Up

Five coming-of-age stories

Get access to 168 years of
Harper’s for only $23.99

United States Canada

CATEGORIES

THE CURRENT ISSUE

March 2019

The Story of Storytelling

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Myth of White Genocide

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

view Table Content

FEATURED ON HARPERS.ORG

Article
No Joe!·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

In the heart of the US Capitol there’s a small men’s room with an uplifting Franklin Delano Roo­sevelt quotation above the door. Making use of the facilities there after lunch in the nearby House dining room about a year ago, I found myself standing next to Trent Lott. Once a mighty power in the building as Senate Republican leader, he had been forced to resign his post following some imprudently affectionate references to his fellow Republican senator, arch-segregationist Strom Thurmond. Now he was visiting the Capitol as a lucratively employed lobbyist.

Article
The Myth of White Genocide·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The squatter camp outside Lawley township, in the southwest of Johannesburg, stretches for miles against a bare hillside, without electricity, water, or toilets. I visited on a blustery morning in October with a local journalist named Mophethe Thebe, who spent much of his childhood in the area. As we drove toward the settlement he pointed out land that had been abandoned by white Afrikaner farmers after the end of apartheid in 1994, and had since been taken over by impoverished black settlers who built over the former farms with half-paved roadways and tiny brick houses. You could still see stands of headstones inscribed in Afrikaans, all that remained visible of the former inhabitants.

Article
The Story of Storytelling·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The story begins, as so many do, with a journey. In this case, it’s a seemingly simple one: a young girl, cloaked in red, must carry a basket of food through the woods to her bedridden grandmother. Along the way, she meets a duplicitous wolf who persuades her to dawdle: Notice the robins, he says; Laze in the sun, breathe in the hyacinth and bluebells; Wouldn’t your grandmother like a fresh bouquet? Meanwhile, he hastens to her grandmother’s cottage, where he swallows the old woman whole, slips into her bed, and waits for his final course.

Article
Run Me to Earth·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

They were released.

For the first time in seven years, they stood outside in the courtyard of the reeducation center. They looked across at the gate. They remembered none of this. The flagpole and the towers. The cameras. Prany counted the sentries in the towers. He heard the rattle of keys as the guard behind him, wearing a green uniform, undid his handcuffs. Then the guard undid Vang’s. They rubbed their free wrists. Vang made fists with his hands.

Prany dug the soles of his new shoes into the dirt. He watched Vang’s hands and then turned to see the building they had exited. It resembled a schoolhouse or a gymnasium. The flag flapped in the wind. The sun on him. The immense sky. His neck was stiff. He knew that if they were forced to run right now his legs might buckle. Not because he was weak, but because in this moment, in the new environment, out in the open, his entire body felt uncertain.

Article
New Books·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Ten years ago, a week after his sixtieth birthday, and six months after his first appointment with an oncologist, my father died. That afternoon, I went to my parents’ bedroom to clear up the remains of the lunch my mother had brought him not long before he collapsed. A copy of Yiyun Li’s novel The Vagrants, which he’d asked me for after I reviewed it in a newspaper, was open on his bedside table. He had gotten about halfway through it. The Vagrants isn’t what you’d call a consoling book—it centers on a young woman’s unjust execution in a provincial Chinese town in 1979—and I had mixed feelings about it being the last thing he’d read. Perhaps an adolescent part of me had been happy to let him have it out of a need to see him as a more fearless reader than he might have wanted to be just then. Still, my father had read Proust and Robert Musil while working as a real estate agent. There was comfort, of a sort, for me, and maybe him, in his refusal of comfort reading.

Cost of renting a giant panda from the Chinese government, per day:

$1,500

A recent earthquake in Chile was found to have shifted the city of Concepción ten feet to the west, shortened Earth’s days by 1.26 microseconds, and shifted the planet’s axis by nearly three inches.

Classes at a Catholic school in Durham, North Carolina, were canceled in anticipation of protests against a lesbian alumna, who had been invited to speak at a Black History Month event.

Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!

HARPER’S FINEST

Happiness Is a Worn Gun

By

Illustration by Stan Fellows

Illustration by Stan Fellows

“Nowadays, most states let just about anybody who wants a concealed-handgun permit have one; in seventeen states, you don’t even have to be a resident. Nobody knows exactly how many Americans carry guns, because not all states release their numbers, and even if they did, not all permit holders carry all the time. But it’s safe to assume that as many as 6 million Americans are walking around with firearms under their clothes.”

Subscribe Today