Nitya Rajeshuni
Hungama—“The Fun Life”
A Story of Compassion, Communication, and Special Needs in India
“You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something – your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. Because believing that the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart even when it leads you off the well-worn path; and that will make all the difference.”
—Steve Jobs
The Gargantuan Beginning
When we first began, I didn’t know what to do. I had heard about TSR multiple times from Sue; however, when I was actually faced with having to pick a real topic—I had a single thought…what had I gotten myself into? I had made a deliberate choice to do a Senior Capstone Project over an Honors Thesis, and I knew very well why it was that I had done so: I wanted to have the chance to integrate all of the different facets of my Stanford experience and even my life outside of Stanford in a meaningful and passionate way. I had that down, but the problem was, what did I consider meaningful?
For the course of autumn quarter, I jumped around from topic to topic and from medium to medium. As an aspiring pediatrician, I knew I wanted to focus my project on children, perhaps making a short documentary on pediatric oncology? Or maybe building a playground for kids with special needs? I wanted to push myself to work outside my comfort zone; initially, the performing arts were never on the table. But as the weeks progressed and the idea of making a film or building a playground grew increasingly gargantuan, I stalled…maybe I was straying too far away from home? Perhaps the best way to do something meaningful and passionate was to return to my own roots, the many weekday evenings and afternoons I had spent practicing my adavus (basic pure-dance steps) and my abhinaya (facial expressions) in Guruji’s (teacher) garage-turned-studio or with my mom as she plastered “pancake” foundation and liquid eyeliner across my face, dotting the thin bridge between my eyebrows with a big red dot. Maybe I was not really playing it safe by returning to the sound of ghungroo (bells tied around the feet) resonating throughout the auditorium, the dance-moms waiting eagerly backstage, saris (traditional Indian garb) ready to shield us as we whisked from one costume into the next. Maybe that was where I would find meaning—from redefining my world of dance.
“Original”
It was settled—I was going to use the medium of dance. Ta da! Progress had been made, gates had been opened, my ears were ringing with the sound of hallelujah trumpets, and I had moved one step forward, that is, till I realized I now had an even bigger wall to scale. I didn’t know how to redefine dance. I didn’t even know what dance style to use, or how to make my piece more “original.” I threw around multiple ideas; maybe I’d actually try to find kids with special needs and create a dance based on their movement which we’d then perform together. Or maybe we’d choreograph a beautifully poignant piece together? Or better yet, we could create a dance-painting, with wheelchairs rolling, making tracks in the paint and everything! It’d be fantastic—or maybe just I would have to do the dance-painting? You know, for feasibility’s sake. Surely, I could still do interviews with the kids and create a painting based off of that; would that mean I needed an IRB? Or perhaps I could re-create some of their artwork. That should work. But, I didn’t really know how to dance-paint…or really paint for that matter. Okay, new idea—how about some handy, dandy spray-paint?
These ideas went on and on and on, and I only became more and more confused. I knew that TSR would be difficult, but I didn’t think I’d actually find myself totally and utterly stuck.
The Girl Behind the Gate
As we tried to squeeze through the little gullies, narrowly missing the auto-rickshaws on either side, our driver Yusuf honking like mad, I peered out the window, hoping to get a brief look of their flat. I wondered if they still had that swing in the front, the one Nikhil and I used to play in. It had been eight years since I had last seen them. India had changed, and so had I. I could only presume that they had as well.
We pulled up to the front. There was a girl standing behind the gate. I didn’t really recognize her, or the peacock blue of the apartment walls for that matter. I heard the shuffle of pots and pans inside as Babai (uncle) and Pinni (aunt) rushed out to greet us. The girl eyed us silently as her parents, teary-eyed, unlocked the gate. She inched forward cautiously, till she was close enough to make comfortable eye contact. Pinni put her arm around and pulled her close, “Do you remember Akka (older sister/cousin)?” She pointed to me, “This is Nitya, Haritha.”
Unstuck
For the first few moments, I couldn’t believe that I was staring at the same little girl I had sat in my lap eight-years ago. She looked so different, and yet, nothing had changed. Still, my family knew nothing about Hari’s condition or the fact that she could only speak two-and-a-half words. Special needs was not a term that they used. Inclusive education was not a concept they were familiar with. And apparently, according to my own family, every developmental disorder amounted to having Down’s Syndrome.
I was absolutely astounded—how could they not know? And how could there be such a lack of communication and understanding across the medical community and even in my own family? I felt guilty and disgusted and frustrated and sad and stuck all at the same time. But despite the confusion and tears that lingered in the room that day, the thing I remember most is Hari’s smile as she gestured to us, “You are mine.”
The conditions in India surrounding special needs were in no way ideal, but the beauty, resilience, and determination I saw in my family was the first step to becoming unstuck. And for the first time since I had started TSR, I felt unstuck too.
Connecting the Dots: The Creative Process
I had been inspired by Haritha’s story and the moment I came back in the winter, I still didn’t know what exactly I was going to do, but I knew what I wanted and that was to tell Haritha’s story, bringing awareness to the very lack of awareness in India, but more importantly, capturing her spirit and the tenacity of her and her family.
Of course, I still had many little hurdles to clear from choosing a style of Indian dance to choosing a musical piece to deciding how many dancers I wanted. Eventually, I settled on Indian Classical dance as my medium, combining elements of North Indian Kathak and South Indian Bharatanatyam. I would redefine what I had learned my entire life, that classical dance was typically used to retell stories of Hindu mythology, epic narrations from the Bhagavad Gita or the Vedas or the many texts I has grown up reading. I would throw a slightly modern twist on it, focusing more on the expression and emotions behind the story arch than solely on the precision of the mudras (hand gestures) and jatis (series of rhythmic steps) themselves. I wanted my piece to come alive, and I was determined to use an age-old art form to discuss a very current problem.
Of course, I was still terrified; I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I had only ever choreographed pure dance pieces—abhinaya was entirely new to me. Sure, I had grown up performing abhinaya pieces, which in many way, I truthfully felt much more comfortable with than pure dance, but choreographing an expressive piece meant to capture a real story—alive and breathing—and emotions as raw as what I had experienced the day I saw Haritha was a daunting task. I didn’t know where to begin, but what I soon realized (as I have re-realized time and time again this year) was that the road to something greater and the moments of “Aha!” in the creative process never come easily. You have to work for it. In fact, those moments are far and few in between, but the inspiration that comes with every moment is almost always more than enough to propel you forward, even if you don’t know where exactly it is you’re going.
And so I stumbled, to the right, to the left, to the back, and rarely to the front, caught up in a whirlwind of Brownian motion. And yet somehow, the cumulative effects of all those stumbles took me exactly where I needed to go, and it is only now as Steve Jobs would say, that I am able to look backwards and connect the dots.
So I moved forward and Hungama (the fun-life) blossomed. I would often call my mentor Sandhiya Kalyanasundaram frantically at 11: 39 PM not knowing what to do next or what order to work in—did I want to pick the music first? Or should I start toying with some choreography? I met with Professor Janice Ross and other artists on campus to glean from them valuable nuggets regarding the creative process, and although I often still found myself very confused, the single most important thing I learned was that you just have to get your hands messy and try things out.
I began improvising, choreographing small pieces here and there to get a feel for the emotional content I wanted to reflect. I began interviewing my cousin Nikhil, Hari’s older brother and the sole English speaker in the family, devoting many hours to perusing the pictures he would send me of Hari and pouring over the quotes I had recorded in my red Moleskin, our numerous two-hour 5 AM Skype sessions never seeming to be enough. We’d email back and forth as he passed on information from Babai and Pinni and I’d attempt to integrate everything from my memory with the research “data” now stored on my hard-drive. I’d journal to clarify my own fears, misunderstandings, and emotions.
All the while, the musical gears in my head were turning—why not use live music? And if we used live music, why not original music? After all, Indian Classical music, like dance, typically was sung in praise of Hindu gods and goddesses, meant to convey age-old tales from the ancient texts. Original lyrics, perhaps based on the interviews, would be perfect. I knew student musicians, maybe they’d be willing to help? Even more motivation was the fact that classical music had many elements we could take advantage, such as the intricate rhythmic and tonal schemes and improvisational nature inherent in Indian Classical music.
I talked to Vikas Yendluri, one of my close friends and the percussionist I had in mind, if he and his roommate Anirudh Venkatesh, a vocalist, would be willing to accompany me. We talked about potential ways of going about putting together the music, eventually concluding that entire originality was more than just a possibility. Soon after, Sandhiya and I began our long email-threads going back and forth as she translated into Tamil, a South Indian language, the English lyrics I had written, transforming them into beautiful traditional and simultaneously untraditional dance poetry. We went from nothing to pages of song, alive and ready. This is what we came up with:
MOTHER
Section I
Karunkuzhalada allipoopadam mettalothi varuvaya
Will you walk to me with your curly black locks as the wind gently plays with them, shhh, I can already hear the tune of your lily like feet
Ilavenir thaen madhi pol varuvaya azhagiya kangalodu karuvul ezhuvaya?
Like the spring’s first honey colored moon you will be; inside my womb your big lashes hide such lovely eyes
Naan thooki valarkka kanavum karpanaiyum migudhi agudhada
How I long to hold you, dreams and wishes fill my heart for you
Mutholi ketka sirippaya Chithirame venkathire chinna uyire
Will your laughter be like a 1000 scattered pearls on a rainbow? My dearest painting, my brightest ray of light, my little life
Section II
Amma amma enrathu kaatchi pizhaiai thavikirathey
Do you know I am your mother? I wonder as my beliefs are lost among optical illusions
Sattenru indha boomiye nisapdhamai koovugirathey
In a flash, the emptiness of my soul my body clings tightly to this earth, silence screams
Aadaravellam Kaanalneer aagirathey
No one to lean on, mirages everywhere I turn for help
Section III
Kanne maniye mudiyum mudiyum neeyum malarpol oru kuzhandhai
My precious one, you can: yes you can. burst open like a flower
Viyakka vaikkum thiramai unnul undu, selvai ulagam thiraiarangam
Countless worlds can be created within you, the world is merely a canvas
Unadhu vannamellam seyya va
Color it all ! it is yours!
FATHER
Section I
Paranda neela vaanam idho
Behold the lovely blue sky
Siragai virithu sel
Spread out your wings
Naan viyakkiren perumidam kolgiren
I am astounded at your growth, I am so proud of you
Section II
Illai Illai En ippadi padaithen unnai?
No No, Why did I create you thus?
Thavarenna, kaalamo munvinaiyo?
What was my error? This is fate? Is this a follow up punishment for wrongs committed in past births?
Kanmaniye siragatra paravaiye
My little one, apple of my eyes, a bird without wings you are
Veguthooram parappathillai mayilgal, neeyum mayilo?
Peacocks do not fly afar, perhaps you too belong to the flock of peacocks?
Pesamal pesum mozhiyellam kuyilinam thaano?
Unspoken verses tumbling from you: are you a cuckoo perhaps?
Section III
Unnul endha vaanavil ulavugirathu?
What rainbows float within you?
Ella niramum vaangi vanthen
Look, I have brought you all the colors
Kuzhandhai, kaigalil allichel
My child, come grab them all with both hands
Naan irukkiren, sel sel
I am here for you, go ahead
Munnokkum muyarchiyellam unakkaga
All my efforts are for you!
BROTHER
Section I
Ilaiyavale, iniyavale, va vilayadalam
Younger one, sweetest darling child, I know you are waiting—come let’s play
Rettai pinnal sutri sutri aadi magizhvaai
Your two plaits dance in the air as you twirl happily to music
Hungama hungama oraayiram murai
One thousand times you say hungama hungama
Solvaai eninum puthumai un paychu
Your speech is still fresh (to me)
Kallatthanam illa sirippoli; Yedhum ariya pillai
innocent laughter; like a new born’s
unnai yaar unarvar? En Thamarai malare
Who can understand your soul? My lotus flower
Section II
Un china mugham Aaviyellam thulaikkudhadi
the songs in your laughter incises through my heart/my soul
vijnanam inru Kadavulai manradu enrathadi
The science that questioned God’s existence talks about refuge in God- what should I believe
Bharathiyin pudumai pen pol unnai vadithen
In my dream, you came to me as Bharathi’s courageous and independent woman
Verum Kanavenru Vizhithuligal karai thedina
(knowing it is only a dream) my tears searched for a resting shore
Vidiyum pozhuthil aeno thiraigal moodina
I waited for dawn, dawn remained enshrouded in a thick screen
Section III
Ilaiyavale iniyavale unakku thoonaagi iruppenadi
Younger one, sweet darling sister, I will be your strength, your pillar
Kadamaiai sei, palanai ethirparathey enraan kannan
The Gita says, do your duty, do not expect any return
Oru palan mattum ketpen- adhey sirippoli enrenrum
I disagree: I want but one return: to always see that tinkling laughter
Enni enni ennamillai; olivadive, naadame
No other thoughts;
Even before beginning to craft the lyrics, the first thing I had to do was to define a structure for the piece, modeling it off of the Varnam, a centerpiece in traditional Bharatanatyam repertoire. Hungama, like the Varnam, would be broken into multiple sections, alternating between pure dance, expressive pieces, and speech intermissions during which I would translate the lyrics and describe the scenes I and my accompanying dancer, Aparna Ananthasubramaniam, one of my best friends on campus, would depict. I defined the emotional mood of each section as Sandhiya, Vikas, and Anirudh sampled appropriate ragams and rhythmic schemes (somewhat similar to key signatures in western music) based on these moods. I finalized the tempos and the number of line counts we’d need for each lyric and presto! We were making music.
What I didn’t anticipate was that the process of structuring the piece and the music would take me almost two-thirds of the way through winter quarter. I had to start choreographing for real, transitioning from getting messy to full-on immersion. This part, ironically, perhaps proved the most difficult as I had to choreograph to a metronome, our music not entirely complete or recorded for practicing and choreographing purposes. And even more difficult was writing out story-lines and character parts. Defining the structure was critical even to the dance aspect, and so I choreographed the piece in three major parts corresponding to the major characters—Mother, Father, and Brother (noted in the lyrics above). Each character section contained three short stories intertwined with sections of pure dance, and although the stories and the moods were different, I wanted to challenge myself to keep the general emotional arch the same, moving from dreams, hopes, and aspirations for one’s healthy child to despair and confusion over the discovery of the child’s real condition to the determination to move forward and make life work for that child and the family as a whole.
Again, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had embraced it at this point, plunging head forward into a world of discovery. Sometime, I just had to stop thinking solely with my brain; the stories I wanted to tell would come naturally. I just had to think with my heart.
The Conversation
I was dreading “The Conversation.” I had been dreading it all week. Aparna squeezed my shoulder as we walked in, “You got this,” she whispered behind me. One of the hardest things I have had to do this entire year was simply, to talk. Now that the music and choreography had been falling in place, I figured it was probably a good time for me to sit down with Sandhiya, Aparna, Vikas, and Anirudh and talk about why exactly it was that I was doing what I was doing and what it meant for me to have the opportunity to share, and more importantly, reconnect with Hari’s story. Although I had talked numerous times with Aparna and Sandhiya before that point, sitting down with everyone at once and literally exposing myself in front of them was one of the most nerve-racking things I have had to do all year. Would they take me seriously? Would they understand? Or was this just another art project to them?
What I didn’t realize what that I was very fortunate to be working with such passionate people. Doubt and vulnerability are critical components of the creative process; in fact, they push you to become better. If I couldn’t expose myself in front of the four people who had actually made a commitment to share this experience with me, how was I going to share what I had been pouring my heart and soul into with complete strangers?
Needless to say, The Conversation was flawless—Sandhiya, Aparna, Vikas, and Anirudh were incredibly understanding and I came away from The Conversation knowing that I had tremendous support but more importantly, that vulnerability was perhaps one of the greatest assets I had at my disposal.
Hungama
As I stepped on stage, ready to give my introduction, I could feel my fingers quivering. This was it. This was the moment I had been working towards all year, and my ghungroo-studded feet were not actually standing front and center on stage, my paper lyrics quivering in one hand, mic in the other, ready to bear all and tell all.
Truth be told, I almost can’t remember the concrete details of half of that night—never have I been so fully engrossed and present in something like I was the evening of my final TSR presentation. I wish I could capture in words how fulfilling and soulful it felt to completely lose myself in Hari’s world on stage the night of May 31st, 2013, but no matter how difficult that may be, that evening and that experience, with Aparna, Vikas, Anirudh, and the audience all in sync, is something I will always remember vividly in my heart, in my mind, and in my soul.
I will always remember the sisterly gaze in Aparna’s eyes as she gazed into mine, gesturing “You are mine,” she playing the role of Haritha and I the role of Nikhil. I will always remember the beautiful melodies of transforming ragams floating above, ethereal and light like the flutter of a bird’s wings. I will always remember the sound of applause ringing throughout the room, unwilling to yield, the acknowledgement that what had been exposed had been internalized and shared and loved and embraced. I will always remember the mother who came up to me afterwards just to tell me how touched she was by my project and to invite me to the birthday party of her son Nikhil, a young boy with special needs. I will always remember the beaming smiles on the faces of my friends, family, and my mentors and the warmth and compassion I felt in their hugs and in their eyes. I will always remember that they understood. And I will always remember the vision of Hari dancing in front of the TV set, swaying to Bollywood serenades—the very vision flashing before my eyes as I first stepped on stage and the very final vision that rushed forward the moment the applause of the audience snapped me back into reality.
Hungama translates loosely as the fun-life, and from Hari, I have learned to live my life to the funnest. Life is too short to wallow in the inconsistencies and unwanted furrows we find ourselves trapped in—it’s too short to sit there and do nothing simply because the people trapped in the furrow next door can’t seem to hear your hollers for help. Through TSR, I have learned to quit hollering and to put my mind and heart to the test—scaling walls I’ve never scaled before and emerging from unwanted furrows time and time again.
Through TSR, I have had the opportunity not only to reconnect with Hari and really enter her world and that of Babai, Pinni, and Nikhil but to share her story with others, serving as a public proxy of sorts for a very private and unaddressed affair. I’ve had the chance to challenge myself and to believe that I can do things I didn’t think I could do. I’ve learned that it’s okay to not know where you’re going but to trust that the dots will connect. I’ve learned that fully engaging with a goal entails some degree of Brownian motion and that sometimes thinking with passion over rationality can be a powerful tool. But I have also learned that rationality and structure are incredible tools of bringing passion to life. I’ve learned what it means to have The Conversation and to trust one’s teammates, sharing in a process of creation and re-creation.
Now, to take a moment and be cliché—I could go on for pages and pages about what I’ve learned, but as TSR has taught me, one of the single most important things is that sometimes the parts that say the most are those that say the least, allowing for imagination, integration, vision, and creation to fill in the spaces.
I will forever be grateful to TSR for the enlightening experience it has allowed me and for the incredible people I have met and worked with throughout this process. It has by far proven one of the best experiences I have had at Stanford and truly did make for the perfect integration of all the different facets of my Stanford career. Thank you, Sue and Andrew, for everything you have done and for starting such a truly fulfilling program. My hope now is that I can continue to move forward with all these lessons in mind, pursuing my passions and living the Hungama Hari has taught me to live.
Special thanks to: Andrew Todhunter, Sue McConnell, and the TSR class for a wonderful year; Janice Ross and Sandhiya Kalyanasundaram for their invaluable mentorship; Anirudh Venkatesh and Vikas Yendluri for their beautiful music; Aparna Ananthasubramaniam for her lovely dancing; and my family for allowing me to take a peek into their lives.