I danced during Gaijatra at Bhaktapur Square because the energy and rhythm was contagious.  After watching parades of colorfully dressed people winding their way through the crowds and around the old temples and buildings, I felt caught up in the excitement.  

Although I had come to document the event through photos, the dancers seemed to be having the most fun and I wanted to participate. Wielding a wooden rod I found on the ground, I began waving my arms, moving in time to the beat.  As I passed by a line of young Nepali boys, a few of them responded by turning in my direction and rhythmically clashing their sticks against mine, encouraging me to keep moving until an older group of youth welcomed me into their parade.  They taught me the rhythmic timing of "Hey, hey, hey!", and when I tried to turn away my partner insisted, "No, no. You have to dance now."

I danced during Krishna Janmastami at Patan Durbar Square because my friends thought that it was experiential enough for me to simply watch the Hindu devotees.  I had come to the square expecting a more formal dance performance, but instead found small, tightly packed groups of dancers, singers, musicians and spectators creating impromptu celebrations in all corners of the square.  The dancers smiled, different women and men jumped in and out of the circle, while spectators shouted encouragement.  I was concerned that joining the ritual would be "improper" since I wasn't Hindu, but my friend, a devout man, simply laughed at me and said, "you dance for yourself, don't you?"  So we both joined the circle and the crowd roared with laughter.

I danced during Teej because I was pushed into a small dance circle at the seemingly, at least to me, unlikely place of Basundara.  I was watching, curious about the murmur of music and laughter sneaking through the blare of horns and chatter in the busy, bus congested area of the town. But as I pressed into people striving for a closer look, I suddenly found myself in the middle of the circle.  Pushed into the dancers, I attempted to twirl around in a small space, stepping over (and sometimes into) muddy ground.  A beautiful woman in her graceful red sari took my hands and slowly moved my arms in time to the beat, pulling me into the fluid motion of Nepali dance.  In the circle, the sounds of the city faded away while people continued to sing and dance, oblivious to the dirt, noise and dust on the other side.

I have heard some of my Nepali friends express concern over the conservative nature of Hindu festivals and practices.  More seriously, it is clear that some women are sometimes forced to fast during Teej, which puts them in jeopardy.  I don't believe problems should be ignored or overlooked simply to preserve tradition, nor do I believe Hindu ritual to be idyllic and simplistic without its own complications and sometimes contradictions.

But I am struck by the fun that radiates from these festival traditions.  It seems to me that a practice with so much energy has a lot to offer.  For an outsider learning about Nepali society, and a Westerner who grew up in a country where public displays of religion, devotion and sometimes even joy and excitement are frowned upon, the enthusiasm and vibrant energy that accompanies dancing in the street is freeing.  Despite bandhs, worries of insecurity, and frustration with the government and peace process; despite difficult transportation, muddy streets and flooding, I see Nepalis of all ages enjoying themselves through music and dance.

Dancing releases energy, inspires happiness, and gives a sense of communal belonging.  Every time I joined a group of dancers I felt welcomed and could see a desire in people around me to share their culture and share their fun.  In the dance circles, everybody was my friend. We didn't talk much, but we shared smiles and imitated each other's moves, laughing together at our attempts.

Merriment through music is not just reserved for festivals, either. At a Dohori restaurant in Thamel, I watched a lighthearted performance and learned that Nepali musicians are comediens as well.  Young female singers faced off against young male singers as they provoked and teased each other through improvised words, exchanging lines in a call and response song style.  They brought the audience into the game with witty jokes about the guests, commenting on male female relationships with an openness I don't normally observe in Nepal.  Once again, formal performance took a backstage to improvisation and goofing around, and I happily danced to the singer's jokes.  At the end, a bearded elderly man, who had been one of the most lithe and energetic dancers, saluted me as I walked out, recognizing and approving of my participation .  

Back at the festivals again, I still received special treatment as a foreigner, but it was a hospitable, friendly treatment; nobody wanted to exploit me as a tourist, they just wanted me to join the celebration.  

One of the men watching the dance at Basundara leaned in to me and said enthusiastically, "This is the best place to live!"  At that moment in time, I couldn't argue with him. I just smiled and wobbled my head from side to side in the typical Nepali style.

Soruce:

http://www.nepalnews.com/main/index.php/-featurearchive/1234-shall-we-dance-in-kathmandu-ktm-dancing-lessons-for-an-american-girl-.html