On dancing, space and running out of coffee.

I love to dance.

Anything from the poised tapping of my feet or strutting while in fact enjoying an astral tango, or grooving to zippy bollywood music on the tv and occasionally managing to perfect that signature step, to letting my hair down on the dance floor and dancing till I drop - some such occasions ending in happy hugs from random-strangers-turned-best-grooving-partners! A dance floor has been an exception to my ostensible love for open spaces and the 'I-don't-wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve' arrogance - the claustrophobic dance floors transform into my eden of dreams and possibilities. The constant act of embracing, interacting and reinventing, between the body and the space -it amuses me how, the beauty and meaning of the dance is not complete without the body in relation to the space around.

I ran out of coffee. I wore off my words. And then, I found me dancing.