Only a muted alarm bell sounds as I enter the room for my first ballroom dancing class. I’ve made sure I’m 20 minutes early, giving myself a few moments to prepare for the anxious transition between my lazy street-gait and the Foxtrot. The hall is located on the periphery of a shabby suburban college campus, but it’s large and airy. Welcoming me at the entrance is the spiffy, tall instructor Sandip, 27, who’s dressed in a dark shirt, tailored brown slacks, and shiny black Pradas. “Where’s your partner?” asks a smiling Sandip. It’s a valid question and I shrug awkwardly. Before coming to the class I asked three female colleagues if they were interested in learning to Ballroom dance. All of them, usually so willing to hang out, thought about it for a moment, smiled nervously and then proceeded to come up with some lame excuse. “Never mind—there are plenty of pretty girls here,” says Sandip, “but till they come why don’t you dance with me?” I agree and the Afro-Cuban beats start resounding in the background. My first lesson is in the Cha Cha, that naughty Latin dance. “Please don’t count one-two cha cha cha, or I’ll be forced to call you Aruna Irani,” says Sandip who received his training at the Ballroom Dance Teachers Training School in Bonn. “The correct beat is 2-3 cha cha-1.” I lumber along trying to keep step with Sandip, who’s so graceful that I just want to quit and leave. At first we do the Cha Cha standing next to each other, trying to keep symmetry but after a while he gets bored, turns towards me and rests his arm on my shoulder. I respond positively. He’s the woman and I’m the male, which is perfect, except that he’s about 4 inches taller. Since the Cha Cha doesn’t come naturally to me, I usually fall out of sync after eight steps and trample all over Sandip’s shoes. He seems annoyed but doesn’t say anything. “Look up at my face—stop gazing at my feet,” he booms, adding, “Do you want the lady to think you’re staring at her legs?” “Never hold a lady by her waist,” he goes on, shifting my hand to his shoulder blade. “If you draw attention to that area, other men will start noticing her and you don’t want any trouble—the technical reason is it’s easier to turn her if she’s being held by the shoulder.” The class starts filtering in and I’m pleasantly surprised to see a largely youthful group of about 20. “People associate ballroom dancing with being old and stuffy but seven out of the ten dances are done at a frenetic pace,” says Sandip, pointing to the mix of college-going students and young married couples. He then introduces me to Meghna, my partner for the evening. Her face is familiar and we figure we went to the same college at around the same time. Meghna’s wearing a pastel orange blouse, knee length black skirt, thick black heels, and is looking very Latin. “I insist that men wear formal trousers and shoes with leather soles—how you look determines how you feel and how you dance,” barks Sandip. I’m in loose jeans, a faded T-shirt and clunky Doc Maartens. It’s the class’ second-last session and they’ve nearly perfected 50 dance steps. We start with the Foxtrot, and Meghna leads the way. I learn a few moves but goof up regularly. My partner, on the other hand, moves with panache and purpose. I throw my hands up after a few attempts and start talking to her. “Ah, you’re chatting with your partner—this dance is perfect for that,” chimes Sandip, adding, “since the music is soft for the Foxtrot, this is when you ask a girl where she stays and for her number; you can interact but still feel like you’re dancing.” We move on to the Samba, a festive dance of celebration from Brazil. “I love the Samba because it’s fast and peppy; most of our film songs follow a Samba beat,” says Sandip. The temperature in the room is rising and Meghna gathers her shoulder length hair into a tiny bun, revealing a slender neck. I’m awful at the Samba and she puts me out of my pain and begins dancing on her own. I just watch. “Maybe you’ll like the Jive,” says Sandip who notices I’ve slunk into a corner. “You can spin the lady from here to there and she’ll be impressed.” I’m a little better at jiving and Meghna decides to keep me for the time being. Just when I’m getting comfortable, Sandip announces that we’re shifting to the Rhumba, the Cuban dance of love. “It’s very sexy, dark and full of lust,” he says, “it’s bursting with passion.” I take to the Rhumba instantly, the slow, deliberate pelvic movements flowing with ease. My partner seems to be enjoying herself too. “The beauty of the Rhumba is that you can express yourself without saying a word,” says Sandip. “The chemistry is in the dance and you can convey any message through your movements. All will be understood.” The next time my relationship turns sour, I know where to head for therapy.
