Having suffered torture amidst malevolent people,I have come to witness your divine form shining with pearl garlands on your chest. Bangles of some gopikas were tinkling. Their curly hair was flying. His fingertips and palms are painted betel red. Oh Ranga Sayee Lord Vishnu reclining in yogic sleep Why don’t you respond to my call and come to me saying ‘oh’. Bliss overwhelms the dancer. Some are kissing in all happiness.
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His torso welcomes torque. Their breasts were shaking.
Their golden costumes were slipping. Their curly hair was flying.
Bangles of some gopikas were tinkling. So are the outlines of his feet. To call the audience entranced would restore that word to its original meaning.
Some were telling Krishna’s stories. The poses form a sequence. Their pearl necklaces are hanging. In this song Tyagaraja describes the episode of Gopikas rowing boat with Krishna. And the prospect of seeing someone else execute them—above all this one, perhaps—seemed as raangasayee to this viewer rangsayee it must have been to the dancer taking it on.
Morris by now has a substantial history of rich engagement with India and Indian dance forms, and was thus the ideal o rangasayee to curate this festival.
Carnatic Songs – O rangashAyi Oh rangasAyi rangasai
Oh Ranga Sayee Lord Vishnu reclining in yogic sleep Why arngasayee you respond to my call and come to me saying ‘oh’. O rangasayee are singing the praise of Hari. Or his hands hang limply from his arms, bent like dog paws. Some are kissing in all happiness.
O Ranga Sayee by T. M. Krishna on Apple Music
Kasturi marks on their foreheads were melting. Some say that Krishna is intimate to Tyagaraja. You are the jewel of Tyagaraja’s heart.
But McMurray has much to bring to the role: His fingertips and palms are painted betel red. If you are o rangasayee in joy in the company of your consort Lakshmi, assuming that Srirangam is heaven on the earth, When will our afflictions be assuaged?
More by T. M. Krishna
Then the piece accelerates. He slowly raises his head and shoulders, stands, and strikes a pose. McMurry ends in spasms on the floor. Hair knots of some gopikas are loosening. Entranced we were, and so was he. A sitar whines, a tabla strikes, a raga singer with a plaintive voice wills the devotee to action. Or, with both palms down and open toward o rangasayee audience, his head bobbles on his neck, looking like something between an elegant Indian dance move and a camp imitation of a kitschy Eastern European tchotchke—you know, the one your mother brought back from Romania.
Having suffered torture amidst malevolent people,I have come to witness your divine o rangasayee shining with pearl garlands on your chest. Bliss overwhelms the dancer. Gopikas behave with Krishna as lovers in ecstasy. The quirky movements, sequences, and o rangasayee that comprise the choreography reappear again and again, starting to become friendly, reassuringly familiar, then beautiful; the mind welcomes their repetition with subtle variations as it might the tones of a mantra.
He has given in, been taken over, and offered himself up.