The story we're still writing.

L Long before stages, before microphones, before recorded music — there was a small clay pot in a Gujarati courtyard. Perforated with holes so a lamp inside could breathe. It was called a garbo — the womb, the universe, the divine spark, all held in one earthen shape.

Women gathered around it at Navratri and danced. A hand rose. A foot landed. The beat began.

Nothing about the dance was decorative. Every rotation was a prayer. Every clap kept time with a story older than any of us.

N Navratri means nine nights. Nine forms of the goddess. Nine colours, one for each evening. Nine reasons to gather in a courtyard and dance until the drum stops.

Every night has its own weight. Shailaputri, quiet and steady. Chandraghanta, half-moon, half-warrior. Kalaratri, the darkest night before the light returns. Siddhidatri, the ninth — everything finally arrived.

You don't need to know the names to feel the shift. The music tells you.

I If you have never tried Garba — come. Wear something you can move in. Leave your shoes at the door. Nobody is watching, and everyone will help.

If you have been dancing since childhood — come too. There is always another turn, another timing, another song you haven't tried yet.

Every batch begins the same way. With the beat.