(for Leela Samson) br br Spaces in the electric air divide themselves br in circular rhythms, as the slender br grace of your arms and bell-tied ankles br describe a geometric topography, real, cosmic, br one that once reverberated continually in br a prescribed courtyard of an ancient temple br br in South India. As your eyelids flit and flirt, and br match the subtle abhinaya in a flutter br of eye-lashes, the pupils create an br unusual focus, sight only ciliary muscles br blessed and cloaked in celestial kaajal br could possibly enact. br br The raw brightness of kanjeevaram silk, of br your breath, and the nobility of antique silver br adorns you and your dance, reminding us of br the treasure chest that is only br half-exposed, disclosed just enough, barely — br for art in its purest form never reveals all. br br Even after the arc lights have long faded, br the audience, now invisible, have stayed over. br Here, I can still see your pirouettes, frozen br as time-lapse exposures, feel br the murmuring shadow of an accompanist's br intricate raga in this theatre of darkness, br br a darkness where oblique memories of my br quiet Kalakshetra days filter, br matching your very own of another time, br where darkness itself is sleeping light, br light that merges, reshapes, and ignites, br dancing delicately in the half-light. br br But it is this sacred darkness that endures, br melting light with desire, desire that simmers br and sparks the radiance of your br quiet femininity, as the female dancer br now illuminates everything visible: clear, br poetic, passionate, and ice-pure.