This intimate memoir begins with Esther Luella. who in the Orientalist frenzy of 1920s America became increasingly immersed in Indian dance and changed her name to "Ragini Devi", then eloped tumultuously to India. Here her stubborn pursuit of what she felt she had been reincarnated for resulted in an acclaimed career as a Bharatanatyam and Kathakali dancer.
Yet a gypsy fortune-teller had predicted that her daughter's fame would eclipse her own. and indeed it was Indrani Rahman- rebellious, talented, beautiful, defying her mother by marrying aged fifteen-who truly brought Indian classical dance to the world stage; a pioneer who introduced Odissi, until then performed only by the marginalized Devadasi community. to widespread appreciation.
Sukanya Rahman, granddaughter to Ragini and daughter to Indrani, explores the truths behind their celebrated lives against the history of the dances they popularised in pre- and post- Independence India. She delves into her own life with the same unassuming candour, reflecting upon her simultaneous desire and inability to draw away from this potent inheritance of dance.
Ultimately an ode to these remarkable women so significant to Indian dance, this inter- generational memoir is recounted with a frank authenticity which makes for a compelling read.
SUKANYA RAHMAN is an Indian classical dancer and visual artist. Born in Kolkata, she studied painting at the College of Art in New Delhi and the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris on a French Government scholarship. She also studied modern dance at the Martha Graham school in New York. She later focused on Indian classical dance, and performed at various renowned global platforms. As an artist, her work has often been displayed in galleries across America and India. She currently divides her time between an island in Maine and Merida, Mexico with her husband Frank Wicks, a theatre director and playwright. The couple have two sons, Habib and Wardreath, and two grandchildren, Jake Wicks and Sarah Wicks.
The life of a dancer-as I learned from my grandmother and mother-isn't always adoring audiences, standing ovations or beautiful garlands of flowers. In my own dance incarnation there were the inevitable highs and lows. It was when I was recruited as a guinea pig for the Artists in Schools Programme in Maine that I encountered some of my lows. Staggering out of bed at the crack of dawn, painting my face, getting into full costume, and then driving my ancient Plymouth Catalina to an assigned school was a constant challenge. I once arrived at a school in a snowstorm. As I stepped out of my car, smoke began to spew out of the engine. The students, whose faces were glued to the window, screamed in excitement: "The Indian dancer has arrived, the Indian dancer has arrived!"-impressed no doubt at my arrival in a puff of smoke!
One of my gigs was an invitation to perform at my sons' elementary school in Harpswell Island, Maine. When I stepped on stage the student's jaws dropped... (did they think I had descended from the moon?). They received my performance with much enthusiasm and bombarded me at the end with questions: "Why do you have a red dot on your forehead? Why are your feet and the palms of your hands painted orange? Are those real flowers in your hair? Do all the women in India wear bells around their ankles?"
Once back home, as we were sitting down to dinner, my older son turned to me and said, "Ma, don't ever come to our school dressed like that again." I complied...thinking back to the times the grown-ups in my family had mortified me with their behaviour.
My grandmother Ragini Devi was especially not one to follow convention. Some months after her death in 1982 my mother handed over to me for safekeeping Ragini's most precious possessions.
Stuffed into several large shopping bags, bearing the names of an assortment of New York City stores, were bulky photo albums, Bible records of the Parker/Abbott families dating back to 1660, Ragini's certificate of marriage to my grandfather, a collection of expired passports, old affidavits, documents and a few personal letters. Sifting through the contents of the bags many years later one of the letters, addressed to a "Mrs Bradley" grabbed my attention. Written from Bangalore on 19th February 1931, the three-page letter described in detail my grandmother's journey to India, a broken love affair, and the birth of my mother Indrani. Much of the information in the letter I was already familiar with.
Over the years, my mother, who was a marvellous storyteller, had entertained family and friends with outrageous anecdotes of growing up with the strong, independent, unconventional mother who had dragged her across the world and raised her to become a dance superstar. It was in reading the Bradley letter that I was struck for the first time by the sheer bravura of 2 woman who had broken down all barriers in pursuit of a dream.
Book's Contents and Sample Pages
For privacy concerns, please view our Privacy Policy
Send as free online greeting card
Email a Friend
Manage Wishlist