I woke to the sweet aroma of chocolate-chip pancakes. The scent was a familiar one, a Sunday staple at the Khullar house. It was a crisp autumn morning, and a thin layer of frost coated the ground while a cool fog formed against the windows. The weather was showing its first signs of winter as I slipped out of bed, following the warm fragrance to the kitchen where my mother was cooking. The doorbell rang, cutting off the calm of the morning, and I raced back to my room, quickly changing out of my pajamas and into an old t-shirt for dance class. My mother teaches Bharatanatyam, a form of Indian classical dance, in our basement, which we had converted into a studio. I have been growing up with this art form as the backbone of my cultural upbringing. The girls came in and my mom offered them some pancakes. We each took a few and went downstairs.

This was a mere ten months before my Arangetram, a graduation recital performed by a Bharatanatyam dancer when they are considered to be experts in their craft. I had been peacefully unaware of the stress that would ensue as my Arangetram drew nearer. Each Sunday dance class was a chance I had to see my friends, get yelled at by my mom for not practicing, and help choreograph a new piece. It was bliss. 

I was struck with the news about halfway through eighth grade, although I had been aware this day would eventually come for a while now. My Arangetram would be on August 5th, 2017, the summer before I started high school. It would consist of eleven dances, some as short as three minutes, with the longest one, the varanam, being thirty minutes long. Along with the dances that we had to perfect, there came three costumes to be ordered, two pairs of dance bells, one photoshoot, zero chocolate chip pancakes but an infinite amount of stress. 

My mother had always been doubled as my dance teacher but the line between the two became more blurred than ever as the day approached. The weeks leading up the performance I refused to even say the word. Arangetram. It disgusted me, that word. It caused my brain to fog, and throat to tighten, just thinking about it. Despite the nightly rehearsals, I wasn’t improving. A few days before the show while I was sitting in my sister’s room, I burst into tears. I sat there wailing, hoping to get any form of sympathy from my mother. She sat and asked me what was wrong. I told her I didn’t want to do an Arangetram. False. That I was too scared. True. That the only person whose opinion mattered was hers. True. She hugged me and didn't say anything. I rested in a comforting silence. 

The day loomed closer, and my nerves never died down. I didn’t practice the day before the performance to let my months of training sink in. Every tiny correction in hand position, and slight adjustment in posture having a chance to marinate in my head. But then, the day of the show I started rehearsing the performance, one last time, in the green room. Counting down the days was never a tedious task. I enjoyed the feeling of checking off each moment as being one step closer to being done. Before the show my best friend squeezed my hand, reassuring me that it was almost over. I just had to make it through about two hours under the harsh stage lights, that pounded on me like glowing fists. No mistakes. Her supportive gesture still didn’t help get rid of the taste of vomit in my mouth, the tension in my lungs, or the fear. The fear was the worst. 

I wanted everything to go perfectly but about halfway through the performance, I felt a gnawing pain in my stomach. I sprinted backstage, the stabbing pain only growing. The two bites of a Jimmy John's sandwich I had for lunch were not serving me well, but the sheer dread I felt that day couldn’t have helped either. The air was electric and the buzzing of speakers filled the auditorium with the hum of the violin and the woody sound of the tabla, an Indian drum. It was the day I’d been preparing for years. My Arangetram. My dance graduation. Hundreds of eyes were watching my every move, but on that day I only had one thought: I had to make my mom proud. 

When she danced, my mother’s feet moved at lighting speed, striking the floor, never missing a beat as I raced to keep up. I left rehearsals exhausted, my confidence defeated. My Arangetram was far from perfect, I never found the cause of my horrible stomach ache, but I assume it was a combination of many variables, the fact that I had barely eaten lunch, the stress of the day, or possibly the belt that was part of my costume that was tied so tightly around my waist it left marks for hours after. I often joke that I had “no fun” that summer but the growth I experienced, both mental and physical, was enough to appease my mom, but more importantly, myself.