(This might be the last of my stories from my trip to Russia. Maybe. )
Act I: A ballet in sandals
By day two of my trip to Russia, I was sick. A cold that made it seem like my face was stuffed with cotton wool. I struggled to breathe and a headache made me want to pull my head out and throw it. I stayed in for three days, occasionally venturing out for a meal or a short walk.
But one of the days, I had to step out in the evening to watch a ballet. We’d booked tickets for The Nutcracker at Mariinsky Theatre, one of the oldest and grandest in Russia. The Nutcracker had premiered in that very theatre in the late 1800s and it was only fitting that we watch it there.
Before leaving for Russia, I’d read up online on the dress code to be followed when going to see a ballet – the Russians, I read, were quite particular about how they turned up at the theatre. Tourists, though, I also read, were excused for wearing less-dressy clothing. In my zeal to travel light, I decided to take a dressy top to wear with jeans.
By the time I had to go to the ballet, though, I was in no state to wear that slightly-skimpy-and-light top. I wore a horribly simple plain black tee and attempted to dress it up with a scarf and a colourful necklace. This was excusable; what wasn’t, was that I had to wear my sandals with socks (oh, the horror).
The theatre is breathtakingly beautiful. It’s like stuff I’ve only seen in movies. It is grand, large, and gilded in every corner. There are side-boxes from which, a century ago, members of the royal family would have watched opera and ballet. The mortals that we are, VK and I had only booked seats in wooden chairs arranged on the ‘ground’ floor.
We walked in, and I was already ready to collapse out of exhaustion. We went up to the canteen to see if I could get something hot to drink, but they only had wine and champagne. How I wished I could have done the classy drink-wine-before-a-ballet thing! And instead, here I was, with orange socks in a pair of black Crocs. My shame and embarrassment around my socks were so high that for a few minutes I only looked at the feet of the other visitors. Sneakers. Heels. Dressy flats. Manicured toes. No one that I could see was in Crocs. I sneakily removed my socks and put them in my bag, but felt cold, so I put them back on. Thankfully, my clothes weren’t too out of place. The theatre, it seemed, was filled with tourists. Some were dressed up, shiny gowns and all, but most were in jeans and other kinds of comfortable travel wear. A few zealous ones were in simple dresses. There were no dressy Russians that I could tell – or perhaps they were sitting far out of our sight.
We settled into our chairs. It was time for the adventure to begin – the adventure of how I’d manage to stay up the next two hours. I was ready with ammunition – a cake (for hunger), lozenges (to keep me quiet), Otrivin and Axe Oil (to help me breathe).
Act II: A blast from the past
The ballet began with a charming blue backdrop of a snowy Russian evening before Christmas. A palatial living room with a Christmas tree and children waiting to open their presents. Every once in a while, I closed my eyes and curled up in my seat, tired beyond belief. A nutcracker toy was gifted to the princess. I dozed off. The nutcracker had become a man! Sleep. Some mice on the stage and a king of mice. The princess was huddled with fear on a chair, watching the mice fight with the soldiers led by the nutcracker. More ‘rest’ for me. I don’t remember much of the first act, but nearly cried with relief when they rang the bell to announce a break – I could sleep without feeling guilty about missing something. I’d anyway missed the important part of the princess throwing a shoe at the king of mice which led to his death – a scene I’d been looking forward to watching.
We got ready for act two after some meditation, which gave me a brief spurt of energy. But within minutes, I was back to dozing off. I’d open my eyes every now and then to see what was happening – the scene had magically changed from the princess’s living room. And suddenly, there was a set of ethereal women in ‘middle eastern’ clothing dancing to an ‘oriental’ tune. To my delirious mind, the women really looked out of the world – if apsaras were real, this is probably what they’d look like. They were in baby blue harem pants and a pale, golden bikini top, with chiffony cloth tied to their wrists. Slim and tall, the women were so graceful that it looked like they were gliding.
By the time the audience was clapping for these women, I was back in my daze. I don’t remember noticing the two people who came into the stage. And suddenly, the notes of a tune began to play that shook me out of my stupor. On the stage were two people, ‘Chinese’ people – in Chinese-looking red vests and pants and Chinese hats – dancing to a tune that my mind searched for and immediately placed as one I’d heard in 1997. I suddenly became alert. ‘The Chinese Dance,’ just over a minute long, showed the woman and the man prance around with fans. The man jumped high and touched his toes, and the audience clapped as he did this a few times. I watched all this in a daze, amazed that after over twenty years, I’d found the origins of a tune I used to find really cute.
When we first got a computer at home, in the late 90s, we got a set of CDs, one of which had a few short tunes that I used to listen to over and over again. The fourth tune was this, as I discovered in Russia, ‘The Chinese Dance‘. This used to be my favourite of the lot, and I remember trying to imitate the sounds when I was a kid.
That one minute at the ballet gave me energy like nothing else did that evening. I could watch most of the rest of the ballet (admittedly not much was left), pulling myself through with the memory of that tune. There was probably only one other person in the world who would remember this tune from 1997 – my sister. I messaged her the next morning with a link to the tune and explaining where I’d heard it first, and she remembered it too.
It’s been three months since Russia but to this day, whenever this tune plays, my mood dramatically jumps several notches high. Whether it’s the tune itself, or the memory of it, or discovering it in a foreign land when I was really unwell – I don’t know. And who cares? Tchaikovsky’s short tune brings me a few moments of joy and a story that will always put a smile on my face.