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Krish’svoice flitted through her thoughts:Youknow what you need?Ahobby.
Shelowered her foot as she considered the possibility. ‘Nah,’ she dismissed the idea and picked up the knife again.Shecouldn’t doBollywooddancing.Whata ridiculous idea.Evenso, her hips bounced to the music and her foot tapped.
Thebig choreographed scenes were the part she loved most inBollywoodfilms.Whetherit was the swaggering, confident moves ofKatrinaKaifor the sensual bellydancing ofNoraFatehi,Francescaappreciated the talent, passion, and sheer opulence of the dance numbers, which often took weeks to film.
Sheslid her phone out of her back pocket and found the website for the studio downstairs.Thetagline read ‘Walk-in classes for all abilities.’Well, that included her at zero ability.Sheclicked on theThursdaynight class.
‘Learnto dance like aBhangraBabewithBollywoodchoreographerJaiveerBabu.’Curious, she tapped on his name. ‘JaiveerBabuis one ofBollywood’shottest young choreographers.Hishook move fromNaachUtsavinspired an avalanche of dance challenges on social media, and he received aFanfareAwardfor his work onVashneyOberoi’sPanjekaNyaay, where he choreographed a mind-blowing sequence featuring 100 dancingGoldenRetrievers.’
‘OMG!’Francescacouldn’t believe it.She’dthought the studio below was just some poxy outfit that annoyed her with loud music every night, but there was actually some real talent teaching down there.Andthe fact that their teacher had worked withVashneyOberoifelt like some sort ofsign.
Shouldshe do it?Itwould be completely unlike her and 100% out of her comfort zone.Butmaybe it would be beneficial to have something in her life besides work, health issues, and hankering after her ex-boyfriend.
Shebooked a place on the class before she could lose her nerve and changed into the mostBollywoodworkout clothes she had: gold leggings left over from a fancy dress party and a matching gold sports bra.Perhapsit looked more 1980s thanBollywood, but it would do the trick.
Theclass had started five minutes ago.Grabbinga water bottle, her phone, and her keys, she rushed downstairs, out onto the pavement, and into the lobby of the dance company.
Atthe back of the reception area, a large glass window revealed a room full of people stretching.Francescacringed.Maybethis was a bad idea.Thethought of being visible to people in the lobby scared her.She’dhadn’t danced in a controlled setting since her parents allowed her to quit ballet, aged 12, after she threatened to hold her breath until they stopped making her go.
Thereceptionist looked up from her computer and said, ‘Oh, it’s you’ and picked up the phone to call the manager.
‘Actually,I’mhere for the class,’ saidFrancesca, pulling herself up to her full 5’2”.
Notbothering to hide her surprise, the woman swept her gaze up and downFrancesca’sensemble. ‘Well, that’s just made my day,’ she quipped.Witha dubious laugh, she checkedFrancescainto the class, directing her to go inside.
‘Thankyou,’Francescasaid with a flat stare.
Theroom was warm; fans blew from the corners, their efficacy almost nonexistent.Theatmosphere was thick with the smell of sweaty bodies masked by floral air freshener.Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered two walls, the rest were plain white.
Francescawished she weren’t confronted with her own reflection almost everywhere she looked.Shealso wished she hadn’t gone with the gold ensemble.Shewas the only one dressed like an 80s throwback.Everyoneelse wore regular workout gear in less metallic colours.
Theywere a surprising mix: lots of women of various races and sizes, twoEastAsianmen, and a couple who looked like they may have walked into the wrong studio.Themale, a heavily-bearded hipster with a bald head, was warming up in a corner by bending over to touch his toes.Hisgirlfriend, who had her hand on his bum for balance, performed more balletic stretches.
Anumber of the young women seemed to know each other, gossiping as they reached their hands into the air and bent from side to side.
Somebodystarted clapping to get their attention. ‘Everyonein their places for the warm up.Satya, you lead today.’
Aseveryone found a spot,Francescaspied the owner of the voice reflected in the mirror, gliding behind her towards the stereo system in the corner.Thismust beJaiveerBabu.Hewore black from head to toe.IfBollywoodever did a remake ofGrease, he’d be a shoe-in for aT-Bird.Hiswalk was arrogant and erect, yet graceful, like he could segue into a step, ball, change at any second. ‘Comeon, people!Places!Wehave a lot to get through today.I’mtrying out some moves for a sequence in the nextHiranifilm, but don’t tell anyone.’Hewinked at the room.Itsaid,Lookat me,Iwork with famous people.Francescarolled her eyes.
Ashe plugged his phone into the music jack, she staked a place at the back of the room.Sheliked the anonymity of the back row.
Bhangramusic rolled through the speakers andSatya, a doll-like twenty-something with a t-shirt that read ‘DesiAF’,led the room through a series of simple stretches.Francescacould handle these.Easypeasy.Whenthe choreographer deemed that they’d done enough, he clapped his hands again and switched the track.Thenext song started: a regular beat backed up by the jingle of a tambourine and a male voice half-singing/half-intoning the lyrics.
Thechoreographer stood in front of the class. ‘I’lljust give you the first eight beats for now.Five, six, seven, eight—’Heexploded into movement as a second voice joined the first in the song.Hisright arm shot out to the side with his right foot, then both his arms raised above his head.Whilehis left hand stayed in the air, his right snaked down, ending near his bellybutton.Hedropped all his limbs just as quickly as he’d started, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. ‘Gotit?’ he asked.
No!Francescahoped he’d demonstrate it again.Oranother hundred times.
‘Satya!’ he commanded.Shestepped into his place and counted the class into the movement, executing it perfectly.Meanwhile,Francescajust couldn’t seem to get the beat right.Itwasn’t that she didn’t have rhythm; she did.Butthey were moving awfully fast.Thehipster next to her also seemed at a loss.ThetwoEastAsianguys had it down pat, as did all of the other single women.
Thechoreographer took his place in front again and demonstrated the next eight beats.
Francescasighed.Perhapsit had been a mistake to come.Thiswas going to be a long night.
Forty-five minutes into the class, and the teacher called for a break.Francescahad managed to do about 40% of the dance so far.Whenthe people in front of her were facing left, she was facing right.Whentheir arms shot up, her leg shot out.Sheran for her water bottle and glugged it.Herhair was plastered to the side of her face, and she wished she had one of those 80s-style sweatbands to match her outfit.
‘You.Goldie.’Thechoreographer’s voice commanded from somewhere else in the room.Francescasaw him in the mirror and realised he was speaking to her.
Shepointed at herself. ‘Me?’
