The journey of reclaiming identity through Bharatanatyam reveals the complexities of growing up Indian American, navigating cultural expectations, and finding empowerment in dance.
The traits that define me—brown skin, a long dark braid, and the faint scent of coconut oil—have always felt like a burden. No matter how hard I tried to wash away the remnants of my heritage, I could never escape what I was.
Growing up as an Indian American, I became fluent in the art of translation—not just between languages, but between identities. I learned to soften the edges of my “Indian-ness” to avoid making others uncomfortable. I mispronounced my own name, stopped eating the food I loved, and smiled through microaggressions like, “Oh, you don’t sound Indian,” or “You’re pretty for an Indian girl.” Each phrase, though often intended as a compliment, chipped away at my identity, serving as a constant reminder that whiteness is the baseline, and everything else is seen as deviation.
For years, I felt invisible to boys, craving the simple proof of being wanted—the lingering glance, the compliment that felt genuine. Yet, I was often left feeling too dark, too hairy, and too much of myself to fit into the narrow definitions of beauty celebrated around me. I longed to be recognized, to be loved, and to feel that the world saw me as more than just an anomaly.
The way we perceive ourselves is often shaped by the judgments of others. Each glance that overlooked me and every whispered remark about my skin became a mirror reflecting an image I did not choose. Desire, I learned, is not merely about affection; it serves as a mechanism of power that dictates who deserves attention and love. As a child, I understood that the world had already made its choices about who was worthy of being seen.
In America, I am often perceived as too brown, too Indian, and too present in ways that make others uncomfortable. Conversely, in India, I am considered too loud, too assertive, and too unwilling to conform to the quiet, deferential version of womanhood expected by society. My life has been a balancing act across cultures and expectations that seldom recognize me, with my existence constantly measured against ideals I cannot meet, yet I am expected to navigate both worlds seamlessly.
For years, I performed belonging, tucking my heritage behind me and molding myself into what others found palatable. Gradually, I began to lose the rhythm of my true self. My body learned to shrink, to take up less space, and to move less boldly. In this process of shrinking, I forgot how to fully inhabit my own being.
Then Bharatanatyam found me. The very art form I once sought to distance myself from became the means through which I rediscovered my rhythm.
When I dance, something within me softens. For a long time, I resented my body for what it could not be, but in the act of dancing, I began to forgive it. The skin I once wished away holds power in this space; the features I tried to hide become integral to my story. While dance does not erase the ache of not belonging, it gives that pain shape, allowing me to carry it differently. Healing, I learned, is not about erasing hurt but about moving through it with grace. Bharatanatyam transcends mere dance; it is a language of devotion, discipline, and storytelling that predates colonization and the shame I once bore.
Bharatanatyam embodies the experience of growing up between worlds—carrying ancient rhythms in a modern body, speaking two languages, and feeling like neither fully fits. It is a culture that is both celebrated and erased, revered and exoticized. Dance is resistance; it became my method of fully inhabiting my body, reclaiming the parts of myself deemed unacceptable, and moving in harmony with centuries of feminine wisdom that refuse to be silenced. I learned to listen to a body I spent years resenting. I once wanted to be softer, smaller—something easier for others to look at and love. Yet, dance does not allow you to hide; it compels you to confront yourself where it hurts.
I used to view my body in fragments, focusing on what was too much or not enough. Dance forces you to see it as a cohesive instrument. You cannot execute rhythm if your mind is at war with your limbs. I realized that dance forms a truce; it is a practical negotiation. My body offers its strength, and in return, I stop trying to betray it. The most important lesson I learned is that this body, exactly as it is, can create something beautiful and powerful. The proof lies not in a compliment or a glance but in the movement itself.
Now, I understand that assimilation is a slow form of forgetting, and reclaiming one’s identity is the boldest act of resistance. When I dance, I mourn the girl who believed she had to earn softness and that beauty was something to chase. Yet, even as grief seeps through my muscles and bones, there is a strange tenderness in remembering—a kind of fragile redemption.
Even today, there are moments when I feel caught between two worlds, worrying that my American life has diluted my Indian roots or that my “Indianness” will always mark me as an outsider. Dance does not force me to choose; it teaches me that I can be both, fully. My body can serve as a bridge, my gestures a dialogue, and my movement a reclamation.
I have learned that culture is not static; it breathes, adapts, and survives through us. The more I embrace it, the more I realize it is not separate from me. It lives in my movement, my voice, and my hands.
This body, after everything, still chooses to move. Bharatanatyam is not merely something I do; it is something I return to—a rhythm that began long before me and will continue long after I am gone. It is a home that does not need to be found; it has always been beneath my feet, carrying me, teaching me, and reminding me of who I am and where I come from.
Source: Original article