In my reflections, I meditate on moments during my dance journey, my volunteering work in dementia care, and more.
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It has been over a week since the performance of Ashtalaxmi, a finale marking two intense months of work, dance, sleep, and repeat. A cycle I welcomed without complaint, as it allowed me to live out a childhood wish. Not a dream exactly, since I never specifically envisioned becoming a Bharatanatyam dancer. But performing arts was something I had always felt drawn to.
It was still warm and sunny when my guru Poernima first mentioned that Sitra Didi had a role in mind for me in the upcoming production. It was an answer to a wish I’d been holding close, especially recently. Though I am working patiently towards my Arangetram, there was a growing pull within me to stand in front of an audience again, to give them something meaningful—and in return, gain the experience and grow from it. While fleeting chances to perform came and went, I tried to move with them gently, letting the wind of opportunity guide me if it was truly meant for me.
Official rehearsals didn’t begin until September, but I was already there, stepping into the early practices as an understudy. I pushed myself to keep up, absorbing new techniques until they felt like extensions of my body. And then, I was seen. I was given the chance—to embody Adi Lakshmi, the goddess of spirituality.
To find the emotion and expression from within, I turned inward to my own spirituality. My gaze fell on the painting of Sridevi—also known as Lakshmi—hanging by my front door, a piece I’d created six years ago in Bali when I first learned of her. Earlier this year, I danced to Pranavalaya, a song that honors Lakshmi seated on a lotus. Looking back, I see how these moments layered, quietly guiding me.
The performance itself felt timeless, as if suspended between breaths. Each step connected me to the story I was telling, and as Adi Lakshmi, I felt I was channeling more than just dance; I was embodying a sense of spirituality and abundance that reached into myself and, as hoped, into the audience. When the Adi Lakshmi jaati ended, the applause washed over me—not simply as a reward, but as a reminder of what it means to truly offer something of myself.
Every step of this journey—on stage, in the dance studios, or in solitude—has revealed that the path forward isn’t about striving but allowing. And perhaps that, more than anything, is the gift Lakshmi has left with me.
Aadi Lakshmi (photography by Iftegaar Joemmanbaks)
