"We have a boy!" exulted Camille, clutching at the little guy, ignoring the three effervescent girls in dainty pink tutus who gazed at her in adoration. The boy himself was unconcerned. We noted that he was already doing lunges and pirouettes in preparation for the trial lesson. We looked on fondly and congratulated ourselves on having discovered a future Nijinsky.
"We don't often get boys for ballet," Camille confided to us, and escorted the four kids into the dance hall.
"See you in a bit," she added, and shut the door in our faces.
We stood looking at each other, nonplussed and somewhat at a loss. Would the boy be all right? Would he obey the teacher's instructions? Would his attention wander in seconds? Should we hang about, shifting from foot to foot? If we left for a cuppa at the local, would we be chased down the street by an incadescent Camille roaring:
"This boy has all the grace of a lump of coal! Take him away!"
Or perhaps:
"Who taught him hip-hop? Take him away!"
Or even:
"The girls are weeping. Take him away!"
Or, horrors,
"He is running around the trees, singing 'Tumse hi.' Take him away!"
So we shuffled back and forth and tried to peek through the cracks in the door to see what the boy was up to.
We caught a brief glimpse of him prancing sideways. Then we heard Camille asking him to come back. Her voice was not tinged with hysteria, and we breathed sighs of relief.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the boy came out beaming. Camille looked just a tad less enthusiastic. "He does follow instructions," she said. "The girls are ahead of him, though. Perhaps he'll be better off with a more junior group."
The junior group was just then streaming in: more little girls, barely two years old. The boy would tower over them and perhaps stomp them into oblivion. Camille must have thought we looked a bit despondent.
"He might catch up before Christmas. I'll let you know," she said, brightly, "If he does, he can rejoin this class then."
"We're not going home?" said the boy. "I want to dance some more."
"We don't often get boys for ballet," Camille confided to us, and escorted the four kids into the dance hall.
"See you in a bit," she added, and shut the door in our faces.
We stood looking at each other, nonplussed and somewhat at a loss. Would the boy be all right? Would he obey the teacher's instructions? Would his attention wander in seconds? Should we hang about, shifting from foot to foot? If we left for a cuppa at the local, would we be chased down the street by an incadescent Camille roaring:
"This boy has all the grace of a lump of coal! Take him away!"
Or perhaps:
"Who taught him hip-hop? Take him away!"
Or even:
"The girls are weeping. Take him away!"
Or, horrors,
"He is running around the trees, singing 'Tumse hi.' Take him away!"
So we shuffled back and forth and tried to peek through the cracks in the door to see what the boy was up to.
We caught a brief glimpse of him prancing sideways. Then we heard Camille asking him to come back. Her voice was not tinged with hysteria, and we breathed sighs of relief.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the boy came out beaming. Camille looked just a tad less enthusiastic. "He does follow instructions," she said. "The girls are ahead of him, though. Perhaps he'll be better off with a more junior group."
The junior group was just then streaming in: more little girls, barely two years old. The boy would tower over them and perhaps stomp them into oblivion. Camille must have thought we looked a bit despondent.
"He might catch up before Christmas. I'll let you know," she said, brightly, "If he does, he can rejoin this class then."
"We're not going home?" said the boy. "I want to dance some more."
15 comments:
aww. so it was ballet after all.
I'm afraid so! :-) And not the jazz kind.
too cool! i hope he catches up by xmas.
Reminds me of 'Toto-Chan', a literature text I read during my secondary education. In that book, the Principal of a rural school regularly had 'dancing' classes for his students where the kids were encouraged to dance (with no form whatsoever) to the music.
He believed that in each kid, there's an innate rythmn and if found, would help the child develop a calm personality.
All the best to the budding ballet dancer. :)
CK: Thanks, man! So, did Toto-chan achieve said balance and calm?
nikinsky is it... hmm.. I thought it might have been the rahm emanuel effect. :)
BM: What's a nikinsky? Ha, didn't know that Rahm Emanuel was a foul-mouthed ballerino financial broker. A man of varied talent, eh?
Nikinsky [sic] is the evil foul-mouthed ballerino financial broker twin of Nijinsky. :)
Reg. Rahm. You must watch Obama's roast of him at some benefit. It is a good one.
word ver. : nonion
I wish I was Angads age and into ballet! I would be the kanhaiya amongst gopis, akin to a desi Birju Maharaj.
Must be your prompting?
Guru: Birju Maharaj is desi! But I take your point about kanhaiya among the gopis. I aim to start the boy off young :-)
BM: Obama roasted Emanuel? How dare he?
That is too cool! When I see little kids, 2 or 3 years of age, and their agile bodies - ramrod straight backs (which let them look like L when they sit on the floor) and their ability to sit for hours with the soles of their feet together - I wish we would send all little kids to ballet or pilates to prevent them from becoming moaning, groaning, creaking adults...
PS: Have you see the little girl doing ballet lessons in Rhapsody in Blue on the Fantasia DVD?
See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWH2OdC9WI8 at about 5:35mark.
sigh, you made me link to a CSPAN video. here.
Shefaly: Ah, that little girl is as skillful at sports and music as I am. I like, I like!
BM: Thanks for the link. Now I gotta check out all the other associated roast links. Thanks very much! Grr... :-)
@Feanor,
Er... nope. The school closed down soon after. It's apparently based on a true story in prewar Japan.
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