<b>Kishore Singh:</b> No such thing as a non-dancer

When he was small, his mother called it a "boy thing" - our son's refusal to get on the dance floor despite blandishments, coercion or threats. "I don't dance," he'd say, or "I can't dance." We did wedding sangeets, New Year's gigs and the children's birthday parties, friends' at-homes, rain dances, family get-togethers, our alarmingly rising number of anniversaries, Holi bashes and whatever other reason we could think of by way of entertainment. Our son provided us the hardware as well as the music for these. He'd collect tapes, then CDs, and now, downloads appropriate to the party mood; he'd even DJ an evening; but the one thing he never did was shake a leg himself.

Once, somewhat inebriated and convinced she'd break his resistance, my wife snatched a microphone and announced that she'd recuse herself from motherhood unless her son joined us on the floor - but he wouldn't budge despite recriminations and tears, resulting in an exchange of intemperate language that neither should have been familiar with, leave alone fluent in. She went back to the mike and apologised, sort of, for the disruption of the party, but it convinced her friends, who'd always suspected it, that she was certifiable, and have kept their distance since.

"There's no such thing as a non-dancer," my wife confided in me, convinced that either our son didn't like our choice of music - he was certainly critical of our daughter's fondness for Bollywood - or that he was shy of boogying before his family and friends. I tried a little levity, blaming his rejection on his mother's habit of being first on the floor and last off it, which was the wrong kind of thing to say to a wife because she recounted all the momentary lapses of judgement in my branch of the family DNA - and there have been some. At any rate, she continued to quiz his buddies about his bopping habits - did he, didn't he? - without being any more wiser.

So we were taken aback when our son shared a practice video that had him doing a star turn as he pirouetted on the floor, bending his knees and hips in response to the music. He'd refused earlier attempts to get him to dance the choreographed steps that are now mandatory for the bride's or groom's pals - he had my thumbs up on that one - chickening out with the trope with which he'd refused his mother all his life: "I don't/can't dance". But here he was, not just dancing but turning up at every rehearsal, taking his cues as though to the floor born, and moving from one to an impressive three performances.

Nor did he seem worried that his friends might snigger. "They're losers," he retorted, when I put the suggestion to him. He'd taken to bolting his room to practise his steps. "I look good, right?" he'd play us the videos again and again, daring us to criticise him - which his mother couldn't even if she tried. He even had himself measured for "Indian clothes", but since his friend's wedding is in Agra, we won't get to see him perform live and will have to wait for the results when the wedding videos are shared. But it isn't time to uncork the champagne yet. He still won't dance at home, at parties or with his mother. There's bound to be a scene about it sometime soon, and since he can no longer say he "can't" dance, why he "won't" is going to brew into another mommy saga.