Once Upon a Time in a Zumba Class

Or, why joy is precious enough to fiercely defend in these times.

A photo, and a song which symbolises a joyous woman like no else. Also, because it was Waheeda ji’s 83rd (!) birthday this week.

Once upon a time, I took a Zumba class. Back when going out wasn’t an event, back when time meant something, back when joy was a reassuring presence we didn’t think twice about, I went for a Zumba class. To be more specific: It was 2019, I was working as a journalist, and in desperate need of something that would make me feel that my whole world hadn’t just confined itself to the newsroom. (It had.) I wanted to feel like myself again, so obviously, I thought of dance.

You see, my ambition as a child, the thing that I loved doing most, was…dance. Dance was joy. Then of course, I grew up. Dancing remained joyous; but joy itself relegated itself to second position. Future loomed into existence, we learnt the meaning of the word “realistic,” and labelled our loves as “hobbies.” We wanted to be something, be successful, be rich. Joy was a thing to be pursued in our free time, not with our careers.

This is not to say I regretted becoming realistic. No. In fact, I think I am one of the lucky ones who got the chance to make a career out of something I (still) enjoy. I am not an Imtiaz Ali hero, frustrated at having not gone for my passion. But, on that evening in 2019, all I wanted was some joy. So, Zumba.

The class was in a three-storey gym in a bustling market. Gyms have always intimidated me, so I was quite glad to hurry up to the third-floor studio where the class was meant to be. I was a little apprehensive because I was legendarily unfit. I have never voluntarily played any sport in my life, so to make matters worse, I had limited athleisure at my disposal. I walked in, fully expecting to feel like a misfit in my old t-shirt, ready to face a class full of athletic people with unimaginable energy levels – only to see two old ladies sitting in chairs, patiently waiting for the class to begin.

Two ladies, with identical white hair. One had a flower in her hair, the other was wearing glasses. Both were wearing sarees with the kind of grace I still long for. They were sitting in plastic chairs in the studio. Sure, the athletic-looking people I was afraid of were milling about, but I didn’t care about them anymore. What were these ladies doing here!

I asked the lady with a flower. “Oh, we are interested in Zumba, and wanted to see how a class is. If it’s nice, then we can ask the instructor to come and teach us once a week. We have friends in our club who would be happy to learn!”

Before I could ask more questions about the club and why suddenly Zumba turned up on their radar, the class began. Fifteen minutes later, I quit. (Ref. legendarily unfit life.) I was red in the face, sweating like a pig, had jumped around more than I cared to, and was grumbling, “this is not dance” while trying to move to a guy singing “Coca Colaaaaaa tuuuu.”

I sat down in a chair next to the two ladies. They looked at me with sympathy, which I tried hard to ignore. “So, what do you think of this class for you?” I asked the lady with a flower. (The lady with the glasses was intently following the class.)

“Oh, this is a little too much, you know. But we will ask him to make it easier for us, easy steps that we can do!”

“Yes, that makes sense…”

“But this looks like such fun!”

I don’t remember what I replied. Maybe I said, sure. Or, maybe I was just trying to get my breath back. But I distinctly remember her saying, “fun.” And it was true. My inability to keep up aside, the class was, admittedly, fun. Dancing, even if the steps were more aerobic than aesthetic, was fun. It was a kind of joy I hadn’t felt in a while. (It was also a kind of sweat I hadn’t felt in a while, but anyway.)

The two ladies left the class soon after I quit. They spoke to the instructor, exchanged numbers, and went their way. I too left soon after, with quick “oh, I have a work call, I will be back again.” I never went back, and I never saw those ladies again. I forgot about that Zumba class. (Except to instinctively hate the Coca-Cola song when it played at weddings.)

But for the last month, I have been thinking of those ladies. Specifically, of what it means to grow old, and what it means to know joy. Who will I be when I am white-haired? When was the last time I did things only in pursuit of joy?

The first question sprang up because January happens to be the month I turn a year older. And so, the month where I ask myself existential questions like, “what have I achieved?” (Don’t recommend, please don’t do this.)

The second question comes, because, with the relentlessness of 2021, I think we have collectively forgotten what joy is. You don’t need me to tell you how tiring the month has been. Grief, fascism, anxiety, social media, living in fear of being unpopular – where does that leave joy? The pursuit of something – not because it’s popular or will make you successful or will make you a force to reckon with – but just, because you wanted to?

I think, in the times we live in, joy has become precious. To be fiercely defended. To draw strength from. To revel in. To protect.

So, that’s what I would like to do in this year, as I inch closer to my thirties. And that’s my hope for you, dear reader. That you find joy, whatever it may look like, in these horrid times. I’ll be holding on to my new life goal – growing gracefully old, wearing a saree with flowers in my hair, and maybe finding myself a Zumba class.

That’s it from me for this week!

I am not leaving any links, because it feels like we’re living in an information-overload anyway these days, and we could all do with taking a break from social media. Indeed, a break from all our screens. Delhi is beautiful these days, and it seems like we’ve finally left behind the long winter. I hope you’re going out. (Safely, of course.)

As always, I would love to hear from you.

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I will write again, soon.