My Bollywood Dance Debut (Sort Of)

Okay, so, picture this: me, Priya, in a full-on Bollywood dance costume. Not like, a cute little Anarkali suit I'd wear to a Diwali party. No, this was next-level extra. Think sequins, think fringe, think so much gold embroidery I was pretty sure I was setting off metal detectors at the airport. I mean, the whole ensemble weighed more than my carry-on luggage for a two-week trip to Europe. The skirt alone could probably double as a small tent, and don't even get me started on the bangles. So many sparkly bangles, everywhere you looked, honestly, folks.

It all started with my cousin, Meena. Meena, who, bless her heart, is the kind of person who has her life together. She's a doctor, she's married to a guy who looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo (okay, fine, his name is Dave, he's a dermatologist, but still), and she's an amazing dancer. Like, she's in this Bollywood dance troupe, "Bollywood Beats," and they're actually good. Not just, "Oh, that's cute, your auntie is doing the hand thingies" good. Professional-level good. They have actual choreography, and they don't just do it at weddings; they perform at cultural events and festivals.

So, Meena's getting married. To Dave, obviously. And she wants her wedding to be this huge, spectacular, Bollywood-themed extravaganza. Because, why not? And she asks me, her slightly less coordinated, slightly more sarcasm-inclined cousin, to be in a dance.

Now, you'd think I'd say no, right? I mean, I have two left feet. My usual dance moves involve a lot of enthusiastic head-bobbing and maybe some awkward swaying. But Meena gave me The Eyes. You know the ones. The "Priya, you're my family, and it would mean so much to me" eyes. And I'm a sucker. I'm basically Leslie Knope, but Indian and with less ambition and more online shopping.

So, I agree. I'm thinking, "How hard can it be? A few hip swivels, some arm gestures, maybe a dramatic face or two. I've seen Devdas." Famous last words, am I right?

The first rehearsal was...a wake-up call. Turns out, Bollywood dance is not just "waving your hands around." It's a full-body workout. It's cardio, it's strength training, it's an art form that requires actual talent and coordination. Who knew?

There were steps. So many steps. Steps with names like "chakkar," "thumka," and "something that sounded suspiciously like 'vindaloo' but was actually a foot movement." I spent the entire rehearsal looking like a confused baby giraffe trying to learn the Macarena.

And the costumes! Oh, the costumes. They were gorgeous, don't get me wrong. But they were also heavy. And itchy. And they had approximately a million tiny hooks and zippers that required the assistance of three people to put on. I felt like I was being slowly mummified in gold fabric.

The weeks leading up to the wedding were a blur of dance rehearsals, costume fittings, and me mainlining chai to stay awake. I developed a deep and abiding respect for Bollywood dancers. These people are athletes. They deserve Olympic medals. And maybe a massage therapist on speed dial.

Finally, the big day arrived. Meena looked stunning. Dave looked like he'd just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. And I looked...well, I looked like a slightly panicked golden goddess who was about to make a fool of herself in front of 500 people. My stomach was doing the cha-cha, and not in a good way. I swear, I could hear it doing the "cha-cha-cha" in my head, mocking my impending doom.

The music started. It was this upbeat, infectious song from some movie I'd never seen, but it was impossible not to want to move to it. And for a brief, shining moment, I was actually doing it! I was dancing! I was twirling! I was even managing to keep my facial expressions somewhat synchronized with the music.

Then, disaster struck.

My dupatta. The ridiculously long, heavily embroidered scarf that was draped across my chest and shoulders. It got caught. On something. I still don't know what. Maybe a rogue sequin? Maybe the sheer force of my own awkwardness?

Suddenly, I was tethered. I tried to keep dancing, but it was like trying to run a marathon with a golden anchor attached to me. I stumbled. I tripped. I nearly took out Meena's grandmother, who was sitting in the front row, bless her heart.

And then, the inevitable happened.

The entire dupatta came undone. All six yards of it. And it unfurled...slowly...dramatically...across the entire dance floor. It was like a golden tidal wave, sweeping across the wedding reception.

There was a moment of stunned silence. And then...laughter.

Not mean laughter, thankfully. More like, "Oh my god, that's Priya" laughter. My family. Always supportive, even when I'm having a full-on Bollywood meltdown.

Meena, to her credit, just kept dancing. She didn't miss a beat. Dave, being the perfect human being that he is, just grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. And the other dancers, after a brief moment of shock, incorporated my rogue dupatta into the routine. They used it like a prop, swirling it around, dancing around it, making it look like it was supposed to happen.

I, on the other hand, mostly just stood there, trying not to hyperventilate, and occasionally doing a little shimmy when I remembered the choreography.

The dance ended. The applause was...enthusiastic. Mostly for Meena and the other dancers, but I got a few pity claps, which I appreciated.

Afterward, Meena came up to me, laughing. "Priya," she said, hugging me tightly, "that was the most memorable performance I've ever seen."

And you know what? She was right. It wasn't the performance I'd planned. It wasn't graceful, it wasn't perfect, and it definitely wasn't going to win any awards. But it was memorable. It was funny. It was real. It was me.

And honestly? In the end, that's way more Bollywood than I ever thought I could be.