The return from the west : A humanist tale

chapter eleven

The return from the West

She had known Guruvayur Usha Dorai for many years long before The Return from the West found its name. Usha was the founder and dance director of Laasya Arts Performance Academy in Kuala Lumpur, but when they first met, she was simply her daughter’s Bharatanatyam teacher at the Temple of Fine Arts.

The beginning had been accidental. Her daughter was five years old when, one afternoon, she decided to be slightly adventurous. Walking through Brickfields, she crossed over to the other side toward the large Buddhist temple she had passed many times but never entered. That detour led her to a place she did not expect: the Temple of Fine Arts.

At first, she thought it was just another religious space. But as she stepped inside, she realised it was something else entirely. There were no altars as she knew them. Instead, the walls were filled with photographs dancers frozen mid-movement, bodies caught in devotion, discipline, and grace. This was not a temple of worship in the conventional sense. It was a temple dedicated to dance.

She walked around slowly, absorbing what she saw. A notice caught her attention: there would be a performance over the weekend. All were invited. That night, she spoke to her husband. She shared her hope that their daughter could grow up with the best of both worlds academic grounding and creative expression. A balance she herself had not known, having been shaped by the rigid metrics of Singapore’s meritocratic system. Her husband agreed.

So that Saturday night, the three of them went. The performance was Bharatanatyam. There was no grand theatre, no velvet seats. Just a simple hall. They sat near the steps, among everyone else. And then the dance began. She was mesmerised. It was the same feeling she had experienced years earlier when she watched Mavin Khoo perform at the Singapore Arts Festival, the Odissi dancer trained under Ramli Ibrahim.

That was when she first fell in love with Indian classical dance. Now, standing at the edge of this small hall, that quiet awe returned. The footwork was precise. The movements disciplined. The storytelling embodied. But it was the singer’s voice that pierced her most deeply, clear, resonant, cutting straight through her being.

She leaned toward her husband and whispered, “I think we should introduce our daughter to this form of dance.”

He watched for a moment longer and replied softly, “If that lady who is singing is going to be the teacher, then yes ,we should encourage her.” That was how it began. Their daughter was enrolled in Bharatanatyam for beginners, the Bala Vihar programme, and Usha was the main person coordinating the programme.


Week after week, her daughter attended classes. She watch quietly like any parent while her daughter go through the program. Usha was the teacher then, at the Temple of Fine Arts. Calm, firm, attentive. The kind of teacher whose presence shaped more than technique.

And then, one day, Usha was no longer there. There was no announcement. No explanation. She had simply left. For a while, they felt lost. Classes continued, but something essential was missing. Her daughter asked questions. She had no answers.

Life went on, but the rhythm had changed. Until one evening. They were returning from dinner, standing in the lift, when the doors opened, and there she was. Usha. Standing with another family, their two daughters beside her.

Before she could even process the coincidence, her daughter exclaimed loudly, “Maaaa! My teacher, ma! My teacher!”

Everyone laughed. In that small, almost comical moment, everything realigned. Usha explained that she had left the Temple of Fine Arts and had started her own school. The two girls with her were now her students.

The decision came easily after that. They moved their daughter from the Temple of Fine Arts to Usha’s new school. It didn’t feel like a transfer. It felt like a return. That was also when her own role began to change. Usha focused on teaching, on the dance, the students, the art. And she found herself stepping in where she could: helping with administration, managing performances, supporting dancers, doing the unseen work that allowed creativity to survive.

Over time, without any formal agreement, they became a team. There was no grand vision then. Just work. Shared responsibility. Mutual trust. A belief that storytelling through movement mattered , not as spectacle, but as discipline, education, and inheritance.

Years passed. During those years, they talked often about staging a production together. Journey to the West surfaced repeatedly in their conversations. They imagined how the story could be told through Indian classical dance, how movement could carry philosophy, doubt, humour, and struggle.

They even went together to the Indian High Commission to apply for a grant. When the proposal was rejected, the idea was quietly shelved. But it never disappeared. It lingered. Waiting.

Years later, back in Singapore, as she found herself reflecting on journeys, returns, knowledge, wisdom, and responsibility, the idea stirred again. But something had shifted.

It wasn’t planned. It just came. Like something that had been waiting for her to be ready. As they spoke, she realised that this wasn’t just about staging a show. It was about completing the circle. She had gone on her Journey to the West, seeking understanding, breaking illusions, losing and finding herself.

Now, the return was about giving it form turning experience into art, knowledge into dialogue, memory into movement. Because what is learning, if not shared?

Almost without thinking, she said, “You know, maybe it’s not Journey to the West we should do. Maybe it’s The Return from the West.”

Usha looked at her, curious. “Return?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Everyone talks about the journey, the search, the trials, the discovery. But what happens after the discovery? What happens when you’ve received the knowledge? That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? What do you do with wisdom?”

Usha’s eyes softened. She smiled. “You live it.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s the real test. Not the journey there, but the return, how you carry what you’ve learned back into the world.” For a moment, they both fell silent, the idea taking shape between them.

In that stillness, she knew: this was her next step. And what is return, if not giving back what you’ve found?

The journey had never really ended. It had simply changed direction.



​The End