A small room saturated with the smell of parquet and lacquer. The center of the room is fenced with unremarkable wooden chairs as in assembly halls of Soviet schools. And as in the first class you are shy to sit on the front row, almost feeling like on the stage.
Dim space slowly filled with people and the quiet whispers. Everybody is in anticipation but don’t immediately notice few dark figures.
They merge with the walls and the dimness until taking off the dark robes and brightening the room with crisp white robes.
People are impatient trying to catch a soft transition from leisurely prayer movements into the slow swirl. And gradually stately rotations accelerate creating an air vortex around the white heavy skirts. Dancers fail in their depth counting circles with round feet steps. Synchronous motion of upraised to the sky hands is mesmerizing plunging into a meditative trance.
Through the music one can hear rustling of fabric dancing in tandem with the centrifugal force. It is trying to catch up with the dancer twisting out of inertia around his legs when he slows down. Spectators exhale. Covered with sweat dervishes take a small break.
But then again measured steps in a circle, crossing the invisible line that spins them like a huge tops. Breathing slows down again, eyes trying to catch every nuance of spiritual elevation until the Sufis fall on sheepskins wrapping themselves wearily in black robes. Mevlevi dance is finished.
Have a good day, MarrySav!)
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