There’s a profound eloquence that comes not from sound but from silence; this is the essence that Priyadarsini Govind brought to her recent Bharatanatyam performance. Unaltered by time or trend, Priyadarsini’s artistry remains a testament to tradition, embracing the margam’s journey, the precision in nritta, and a soul-stirring abhinaya. Her demeanor spoke volumes without a word—she was the epitome of ease, exuding a serenity that one might only describe as having nothing left to prove. This is a realm where quietude is not simply a break in the narrative, but rather an intrinsic part of the storytelling fabric, inviting the audience to savor each nuance much like appreciating the space that defines a sculpture.
One can witness this interplay of stance and silence right from the outset as Priyadarsini commenced her recital with a pancha jaathi alarippu in verse to Pambatti Sidhar’s ‘Aadu pambe’. The audience was drawn in as the rigid natyarambam gave way to the fluidity required to capture the essence of a serpent—a seamless transformation underpinned by the dynamic rhythmic support of mridangist G. Vijayaraghavan and the musical arrangement by Rajkumar Bharati.
The power of this silence was ever more palpable in the rendition of ‘Mathe Malayadhwaja’—a Khamas daru varnam in Adi tala crafted by Harikesanallur Muthaiah Bhagavatar. Here, the jingles of the dancer’s bells were present yet not overwhelming, allowing a rare auditory prominence to the intricacies of the footwork. The narrative illuminated the fabled birth of Shiva and Parvati’s offspring, Ganesha and Muruga, and the majestic assembly of their divine creatures and vehicles. There was even space for Parvati’s heroic vanquishing of demons, subtly extoling her as the revered Chamundeshwari with a sentinel crescent moon upon her crown.
Priyadarsini’s agility and grace never faltered, highlighted by Vazhuvoor jathis and arudis that found their perfect match in the melodic accompaniments of vocalist Jayashree Ramnath. This synchronization between dance and music allowed the audience to embrace the ‘quiet brilliance’ that is a hallmark of her style.
The topics chosen for mimetic portrayal showed a preference for subtlety. In one piece, Ravana and his ten disparate faces were expressively depicted, ranging from weeping to staring to shamed downward glances, as they react to the consequences of his misdeeds. Here, Rajkumar Bharati’s composition ‘Dasa Mukhi’ took on new life with its unconventional flat notes.
Humor played a delightful role in the proceedings, with Priyadarsini interpreting Vidyapathi’s 14th-century opus ‘Ki kahab he sakhi’. A young bride’s candid and confessional reflection on her wedding night offered both comic relief and a touch of realism, conveyed through the nayika’s hesitant admission, ‘He mauled me. Like pearls around a monkey…’
The penultimate piece ‘Jagadodharana’ (in Kapi and Adi by Purandaradasa) was imbued with an air of sanctity by vocalist Murali Sangeeth. This composition beautifully juxtaposed the irony of Yashoda’s maternal instincts to protect Krishna from a serpent, all while being poignantly aware of the child’s divine omnipotence. Priyadarsini’s mastery of subtle abhinaya and impeccable timing magnified the performance’s emotional resonance.
Concluding with a Purvi thillana by Thirugokaranam Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar and an abhang depicting Krishna’s pastoral frolics in Vrindavan, the performance was a well-crafted tapestry of emotion and skill. Priyadarsini’s deft movements were enhanced by the serene soundscape provided by Shikhamani on the violin, Muthukumar on the flute, and the restrained yet powerful rhythms from Shaktivel Muruganandan’s mridangam and Jayashree Ramnath’s nattuvangam.
The evening’s performance was not merely a showcase of technical prowess but a celebration of the poetics of pause—an experiential journey where every silent interlude was an intrinsic stroke on Priyadarsini’s canvas of dance.
