I always thought mallakhamb was a desi wrestling art form for men, so I was pleasantly surprised to see just one man among 15 women when I walked into a class at Nritarutya, a dance studio. The instructors — Rajesh Mudki and Rajesh Amrak — both from Maharashtra and Shiv Chhtrapati Award winners, were discussing the origins of the sport in India. Once the history lesson was over, we moved to the more uncomfortable questions. Such as what we expected to achieve from this class. Answers were as myriad as the participants; seated on the far side, I was spared having to come up with one.
There was a warm-up session before the actual workshop. We started with stretches and once we got all limbered up, the warm-ups began in earnest.
“We will now proceed with push-ups. Do as many as you are comfortable with,” said one of the instructors. I follow a fitness regimen and consider myself decently fit, so I mentally scoffed at that remark.
Rajesh was keeping count aloud (while doing his own push-ups) and I stopped somewhere at 15, opting instead for a face-down shavasana. All around me, people were carrying on, some coming to a stop only at the count of 25, while others touched the 40-plus mark.
The communal warm-ups continued with squats next. I felt better about doing squats — my arms would not be too stiff to write this story the next day — sure that my sturdy legs would hold me in good stead. Well, they certainly did till squat number 22 or 23.
The rest of the session passed by in a blur caused largely by sweat dripping into my eyes. After an all-too quick water break, we assembled around the pole, which is traditionally made from teak. It was around 8.5 feet tall. It stood on a small, square wooden base, and the pole tapered upwards into a ‘neck’ that was shaped like a doorknob on top. The circumference of the pole varied from 22 inches at its base and narrowed down to 14 inches towards the top.
The technique to shimmy up the pole is theoretically simple. You interlock your fingers around it, use your forearms to grip the sides and hoist yourself up. Once a few inches off the ground, clamp the soles of your feet around the pole and make your way up, much like coconut harvesters.
At my first try, I just could not get my feet off the ground. We were a group of seven waiting our turn, so I graciously gave way to the next person, who clambered up with the ease of a simian.
On my second try, I was able to clasp the pole with my soles and ponderously gain about two inches. Hobbes’ ‘bowling ball butt’ slur beat a steady refrain in my head, but I just couldn’t heave myself up any further.
By my third attempt, my body seemed to have got the hang of it, though my brain kept wondering at the ‘how’, since the pole was smooth and my palms sweaty. I had reached the neck of the pole, about seven feet off the ground and considering that I am just about 5 feet tall, I felt like I was on top of the world.
Getting down was a problem. No graceful slide a la Demi Moore, it was more of an ungainly plop on to the cushions at the base.
There were two poles at the workshop and my batch mates were twisting themselves into pretzels or clinging like very lithe, picturesque ivies to them.
I excused myself from the next part of the session that included balancing your bottom atop the doorknob and used the time to make notes. It was then I realised I had the wrong brief — it was not a mallakhamb workshop, it was an intensive to help dancers express themselves in creative, artistic ways.
The next day I discovered bruises on the insides of my elbows and knees. Still, it makes for a great party story.
