The drum beats, and the feet beat too. Each step intermittent to the sound of the stretched leather hit with fervor. The eyes stayed glued to the feet. They are covered in gruesome designs of hena; gruesome for an eye that is not trained to see the beauty more popular amongst the Arabs. The fleshy ankles are adorned with a slight gold chain but without charms or jingles. They turn mesmerizingly, in unison. Who does she dance for? Her body, unseen, her face, unseen, covered – cloaked – in a chaddar that covers everything save her feet.
My glance is then caught by the two doves that reach for the heaven. They are still in the air like a mannequin’s hands carved out of glass, or perhaps ice. They are delicate, almost childlike. You can see her hands and two inches of her wrists. The hands, unlike the feet do not move in unison. Instead they are almost stationary in the air like an eagle content to be at a certain height, not needing to flap its wings. But they also turn, round and round as her frail trunk twists with each step of a three sixty degrees twist.