the belly dance

The belly dance, mixed with other Anatolian dances and served with a three-course meal with wine which I wouldn't drink was for me just that quarter of the whole ‘cultural’ experience that I could take. When it was over, what lay before me was to floss and brush of my teeth and drink my nightly glass of water, and settle on the clean white bed-for-one in Ceylan Intercontinental, to read a little, and sleep.

A girl from the Anatolian dances who performed on my side of the stage laughed gaily with every twist of her body and each turn of her slender hands. She laughed soundlessly when she sat and posed and watched others dance. Her traditional costume pushed lower her already tender age and I stared at her, unashamedly, struck hard that one can be so stranded in happiness.

A young Indian couple were at my next table (a small Union Jack before them; the Indian tricolor among my glasses of wine and water). When the lady picked up her camera and began to shoot I gathered courage and took aim also—at this dancer.