Biography:
Gitanjali Kolanad was involved in the practice, performance, and teaching of bharata
natyam for close to forty years. Her renowned gurus included Kalanidhi Narayan,
Guru Nana Kasar, Vempati Chinnasatyam for Kuchipudi, Usha Nangiar for
Koodiattam, and P. A. Binoy and Vikas Gurukkal for kalaripayat, which she
continues to practice and study.
She performed in
major cities in Europe, America and India, including London, New York, Paris,
Vienna, Berlin, Toronto, Tokyo, New Delhi, Bombay, and Madras. Critics praised
her performances of the classical repertoire, while her contemporary
choreographic work won new audiences for bharata natyam.
Her work was often
multi-disciplinary, arising out of collaborations with artists from other
disciplines: director Phillip Zarrilli, video/installation artists Ray
Langenbach and Riaz Mehmood, violinist Parmela Attariwala, to name a few. Her
performances incorporated folk and ritual forms of dance, theatre and martial
art forms from South India, in eight major full-length dance works, performed
all over the world. She stopped performing in 2007.
Gitanjali's short
story "The American Girl" won second prize in the 2008 CBC
Literary Awards. The story is part of a collection published in 2011 by Penguin
India and long-listed for the Frank O’Connor Short Story Award that year. She
has written numerous articles on aspects of Indian dance for well- known Indian
publications. For two years, she contributed a column on arts and culture to
the newspaper The New Indian Express. Her novel ‘Girl Made of Gold’ launched on
August 1 2020 and has made it to the Longlist at the TATA Literature Live! Book of the Year Award!
She co-founded
IMPACT - Indian Martial and Performance Arts Collective of Toronto, which
teaches the Indian martial art form of kalaripayat to at-risk youth in
underserved neighbourhoods. From 2013 to 2017, she was Professor in the
Department of Art, Design and Performing Arts, at Shiv Nadar University,
Greater Noida, India, teaching and developing a fully-fledged performing arts
program.
Poems:
What’s left
Remember that fairy tale, where a girl
must knit coats from stinging nettles for her
seven brothers who’ve been turned into birds?
And all that time she mustn’t say a word
The old queen thinks she’s a witch, and demands
of the prince (who secretly loves her) that
she be burned at the stake. Though her hands
bleed, she’s knitting, knitting even in the
cart
piled high with wood. Just as they light the
fire
the birds fly by. She flings seven coats high
in the air. Young men tumble from the sky
except for the youngest brother, who glides
one-winged, feathered, from the incompleted
sleeve
The girl, now her work is done, freely speaks
Normal, like her brothers. Only one
remains rich, strange, between this world and
dreams
So yes, obstacles must be overcome
without a word. But sometimes magic seems
to be in the small thing that’s left undone
A
girl becomes a tree, she herself
leaves
underneath the skin, unfurls
branches
reaching for air and light
tipped
with fragrant buds like eyes
releasing
glances. This is her gift
But
when, branches broken, flowers ripped
away,
she’s left a body without limbs
no
one cares. Only her twin, sings hymns
pours
healing water from sacred pot
till
once again she’s tree from root
to
heart to throat to thousand-petalled head
and
all the thousand petals spread
Dukkha
1.
The
first time I encountered sorrow
I stood on one side of a locked door
and listened to my mother's sobbing
Till
then I'd taken only my own
pain seriously, some dress for
Barbie or some sweet I couldn't have
Now, like that woman sent for mustard
seeds by Buddha, I felt the shell of self
that others suffered too
2.
weeds dug from the garden in the spring
dandelion and burdock root, like women
once called witches, she treated like with like
So she'd lost all bitterness by the time
I knew her best, when, no more a child
I became the cause of her anxiety
I know why, she said, the Buddha left
his kid behind. But you're not to blame
Attachment causes pain
3.
My
mother took the gold chain she always wore
and put it around my neck, didn't pull me back
when I rushed headlong into a world
unknown with no one in it I could trust
I would have sold my soul more than once
had anyone offered to buy it
Those cold days, those lonely nights! My mother
prayed May you be safe from harm,
You and all beings, calm as the Buddha
or so she tried to be
4.
My mother wrote me letters no matter
where I went. I wrote to her too, when troubled
when her chain was snatched from round my neck
my letter said, the gold you gave me is gone
She replied, oh my darling, let it go
Who cares? Things of value can’t be stolen
The moon reflected in a cup is not
lost when the water spills the Buddha said
I’m older now than she was when she died
She still gives light
Sweeping
The
broom should move across the floor. First, stroke
the wood, the sound a breath. Release, return
Inanimate made animate, rhythm learned
and practiced. As the body does its work
that now redundant 'I' disperses, fine
as dust. What's been lost? The capacity
to name. It's not required. The eyes still see
but nothing is like something else. Sun shines.
And when the tangled knot of consciousness
reconstitutes an 'I', dust motes rise like
fireflies before they settle in the pan. Once more
the room is clean, but thinking makes a mess
I can't discard, until that sleep untwines
my self, most convoluted metaphor
Ghazal
The river of time flows into light and shadow
float or drown, nothing to grasp but light and shadow
A needle passing through the cloth leaves thread behind
so time embroiders us in light and shadow
Within the frame in colours bright some moment caught
in memory fades into half light and shadow
On a bed, their limbs entwined, lovers forget
that time ever turns the moon from light to shadow
A game of hide and seek, a stolen kiss, a song
The candle flickers, can’t delay twilight into shadow
Gitanjali Kolanad is paired with Liz Ramos-Prado, visit Liz Ramos-Prado.
Poet Statement:
The images by Liz Ramos-Prado brought back memories of fairy tales, especially ones I loved as a child. So I went with that, looking back and rereading the story about the girl and her brothers turned into birds, and the one from India, about a girl who could turn herself into a flowering tree. In whatever writing I do, I need to learn something, about myself or about whatever it is I’m writing about. In these first two poems, I tried to figure out why those particular stories had so fascinated me, and perhaps what secrets they might have held, and which I now have the tools to unravel.
In April, I took part in Daily Riyaaz, an initiative by Anannya Dasgupta, where participants write, or at least try to write, a poem a day. As this year it came during the early days of lockdown, it was a life-saver. Writing a poem became a way to pay attention to small moments, the ordinary things I was doing every day, the gift of time in solitude with nothing ‘important’ to distract me. I had the time to take out the many letters from my mother, which I’ve kept but hardly ever reread. This is where the poem about my mother came from.
I don’t like housework, but it has to be done. In lockdown I (almost) looked forward to it, as a change from doing nothing. Poems come from anywhere, so why not a poem about sweeping?
I like playing within forms and structures like the sonnet, so I included this ghazal. The imagery seemed to go so well with the fine lines of the drawings of Ramos-Prado, and with the theme of ‘Ignite’. And it seems appropriate under these circumstances, that I often think of death.
You can reach Gitanjali at:
Website: Gitanjali Kolanad
Instagram: @gitakolanad
The first time I wrote to Gita was as a response to one of her articles about dance and young devadasis, and asking her permission to paint the photo of a young girl whose look was so intriguing and enigmatic that I had to paint her. She, of course, agreed and we have been friends since then. An awesome co-incidence is that Gita has made it to the Longlist of TATA Literature Live! Book of the Year Award! for her work ‘Girl Made of Gold’ and that is about devadasis too. She was also part of my Collateral community video project that I was part of in 2016 Kochi Muziris Biennale, under Kashi Art Gallery. She had even come down to see the Biennale with her fractured palm. Later in 2018 again during the Biennale, she had visited with her friends to one of the group shows I was part of. Every time we met, it was wonderful. Like German, Liz was also part of “It's all Square” that happened in Dubai hosted by thejamjar gallery and organized by The Domino. Most of her works done during those phase stuck with me particularly the ones she had done on boards. Current ones are all on moleskine. I have met Liz scarcely; however, her works brimming with internal dialogues and sentiments are a delight.
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