New York’s Lincoln Center recently held India Week (7/10–14)—a festival celebrating the country’s cultural vibrancy through music, dance, literature, and more. The crown jewel among the festival’s events was the US premiere of “Samsara,” a dance work by the British-born Indian choreographer Aakash Odedra. Inspired by Wu Cheng’en’s sixteenth-century novel Journey to the West, the work draws from core Buddhist ideas and imagery in an account of the historical pilgrimage of a 7th-century monk who traveled westward from China to Central Asia and India. The monk was motivated by the desire to obtain uncorrupted translations of sacred Buddhist texts and made the sixteen-year trek despite the then-emperor’s ban on travel. In the novel, the monk is joined on this arduous pilgrimage by three “protectors.” The party of four are successful in their journey through the power of their cooperation as well as the kindness of others they encounter along the way. 

The dance production was composed and performed by Aakash Odedra in collaboration with Hu Shenyuan, a like-minded dancer and choreographer, originally from Luzhou. In “Samsara,” the two merge different global perspectives and dance idioms, as Odedra performs two classical Indian dance forms mixed with contemporary dance moves, while Shenyuan performs classical Chinese and contemporary dance styles imbued with flawless ballet technique. 

Tricycle recently spoke with Aakash Odedra to learn more about what went into making this work of epic storytelling, breathtaking imagery, and interpersonal connection.

How did you come to use Journey to the West as your inspiration for a dance work? I find the idea of a journey to the West thought-provoking. We often think of the West as Europe, America, etc. But here, the perspective is that from China, the west is India. In addition, there are two aspects to this story [that I find inspiring]. One is the factual history [of the story], where in the 7th century, a monk makes a journey from China to India to retrieve Buddhist scriptures. This is extraordinary because it was illegal at the time for anyone to leave without the emperor’s approval. The monk defied the law of the time for the sake of seeking knowledge, and it took him sixteen years to go there and back. 

There is also the mythological aspect of the novel. For example, the monk has animal companions like the Monkey King, Pigsy, etc. We have similar characters in the Hindu epics and mythology, so I resonated with that.

How closely does the dance work follow the narrative of the book? Or is it more of an overall guiding theme? We took it as inspiration and food for thought. From there, it starts to depart. We had to bring in our own journeys and find the similarities. We had to locate the place where our journeys converged. I didn’t want to make a literal [new] rendition of Journey to the West―what would have been a bad copy. And when I initially spoke about the idea with Hu Shenyuan, he was very clear and said, “No, please, they do it so much in China.” I suggested that it would just be a starting point for us―a story about a Chinese monk going to India to retrieve Buddhist texts. But what I found more interesting about the whole thing is that cultural interdependence was so important back then. We live in a world where walls are becoming higher and higher. But the story takes place at a time when travel was nearly impossible, and someone was willing to risk their life for a bigger purpose, a greater cause―to gain the wisdom of another place. I thought this was something to learn from.

How did you decide to use the title “Samsara,” and what does samsara mean to you? Simply speaking, samsara is the wheel, or cycle, of life and death. But it is impossible for me to describe the concept in a single sentence, because as one quote says, “The concept of samsara is as vast as the number of sand grains in the riverbed of the Ganges.” 

I was raised a Hindu. But all of these spiritual systems—Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism—come from the same root―[ancient India]. They [all] address the same [concerns]―escaping this rejuvenating, repeating energy of the soul called samsara. This is achieved by overcoming maya, or illusion, and freeing oneself from a sense of attachment. That basically means that objects don’t own you. You can leave this material life behind. And they acknowledge karma, a universal concept that means, in the simplest understanding, if you do good, you will experience good in return. 

But for me, samsara relates to another aspect of this monk’s journey. Traditionally, there were fifty-four monks who had attempted this same journey and had not succeeded in making it back alive. I had this image in my mind of this monk walking through the Gobi Desert, seeing the footprints of those who had gone before him and feeling that they were somehow familiar, as if he had been there before. Then I thought, “What if it was the same monk, life after life after life … trying to reach this destination?” So that is how “Samsara” was born―from this idea of the wheel, this cycle of life and death, and breaking free to attain this spiritual realization. The title connects with my imagining this monk, who undertakes this journey lifetime after lifetime until he finally reaches his destination. I felt like the title was powerful enough and open enough to allow for interpretation. It also allows the philosophies that Hu Shenyuan and I carry to seep into the piece. I felt like “Samsara” gave us that space.

How did this collaboration come about? A friend suggested that I dance with the lead dancer of Yang Liping’s company from China. So I went to see them perform when they were on tour in the UK. There were these incredible Chinese dancers doing triple somersaults, and they were very acrobatic. Then, after some time, this being walked onstage wearing nothing but a dance belt. I couldn’t tell if the entity was male or female. Everyone in the audience slowly moved forward on their seats in silence. Then he started to move, and I couldn’t tell where his leg was, his head was, his arm was. He was pure mercury. He wasn’t the lead dancer, but something in my soul said, “Why can’t I dance with him?” There was something there that I connected to instantly. [I knew,] that was the dancer that I wanted to dance with.

I made a journey of five flights from India to China and ended up at his studio. I remember the first time the doors opened and our eyes met, we felt that we knew each other from before. And the first time we moved, it felt like we were one body instantly. From that point in 2017 until [the show] premiered in 2020, we would have these sporadic research-and-development periods back and forth in England and in China. We would create a whole bunch of material and put it away. He would come back, and we would go through this process again. In the end, it took me twelve hours a day for four days to go through all the material we had created before we got to the final creation. Then it was just about sifting through it all and keeping the most genuine things. 

So the generative seed here was the person-to-person collaboration with Hu. Definitely. Another thing I find very interesting is the iconography of the Buddha. This was one of the things we talked about in the beginning. The iconographic features, like the shape of the eyes of Siddhartha Gautama Buddha, a Nepalese Indian, change as Buddhism moves through China to Tibet and Japan. I find it fascinating how the iconography shifts, how one has to see the Divine in one’s own image. So for our collaboration, it was about me seeing myself in Hu and Hu seeing himself in me. We started to do a lot of work mirroring and matching each other. I liked the idea of each one of us switching and becoming the Buddha.

“So for our collaboration, it was about me seeing myself in Hu and Hu seeing himself in me.”

How did you and Hu communicate about the framework of the piece and the process that you were going to engage in to create it? It was brilliant because Hu didn’t speak any English, and I don’t speak any Mandarin or any Chinese languages. So whatever was there had to be very genuine. The most incredible part was that we completely understood each other. Any time he moved, my arm had already gone to that place. We kind of knew what the other was thinking and feeling. I would describe it as one soul split into two. Our journeys and life stories were very similar. The mode of communication was almost telepathic. There was no need for words. In fact, a couple of times we had a translator. But after Hu spoke and before the translator completed the translation, I was able to translate to the translator and ask, “Is this what he’s saying?” They used to laugh because, somehow, I understood, and vice versa. It felt very organic and natural. When something didn’t work, we both felt it. When something did work and had potential, we both knew it. 

Communicating with him was like communicating with myself. Our aesthetics and choices were very similar. At the same time, there are aspects of our makeup that are different, so we execute [our] moves very differently. There is a very Chinese classical element to him and the way he moves; there is a definite classical Indian element to me when I move. But when I give him some Kathak to do, he refines it and performs it in a unique way. And when he would give me a movement phrase to perform, I would automatically interpret it through my body. I think we complemented each other, but it felt like our essence, our soul, was the same. Often, I would look at video recordings of our work in the studio, and I couldn’t tell which one was him and which one was me. The only reason I could eventually tell was after I grew the beard. That kind of energy and understanding─a spiritual understanding─is what made the collaboration process between us so smooth, so organic, and incredible.

In the documentary The Making of Samsara, you talk about overcoming your sense of ego and merging all of the creators’ contributions like the ingredients in a dish. Was this a new level of collaboration, or was this typical for your working method? It’s kind of typical. But I think this collaboration reached a new height. In general, I don’t like the idea of hierarchy when it comes to making dances―like sculpting some lights around a dance piece and throwing some music on top of that. Some people may find me rather annoying, but when I work, there is so much back and forth between me, the composer, the lights, the set. We change it up daily. What is important is that it is not about the dance. It’s not about the lights. It’s about whatever tells the story. 

It is like the subtle blend of ingredients you use when cooking different dishes. A sweet dish has a purpose. A spicy curry awakens certain senses in your body. Each type of dish has a different type of effect on your body and your thoughts. Likewise, it’s not about one element dominating the entire production. It could be that in the first scene, the dancers lead and move the story. Then, suddenly, a lighting cue creates a transition into a different world. It becomes this melting pot, where everything has its peak moments and place. Together, they create something greater than any single element. For this, one has to let go of the idea of I, my work, me, me, me. In “Samsara,” everyone’s intentions were purely focused on what was best for the production. So we worked to adjust the ingredients until the right aroma came out of the recipe.

Did you consciously decide to use a particular dance idiom for a specific section, or did the movements arise more spontaneously? It was organic, but there were moments where we felt a particular idiom was called for. There is a moment in my solo that felt like it had to be a classical Indian combination of Kathak and Bharatanatyam. The same thing occurred for Hu. I think it’s important not to ignore your roots. So naturally, the idioms of Chinese classical dance and Kathak and Bharatanatyam are going to come through. Rather than dismissing them, we welcomed them, planted them as seeds. The idea was to celebrate the roots of where we come from as artists and cross-pollinate them to create a hybrid universe that is more accessible to people. 

Dance is the language of humanity. It should communicate with anyone from any walk of life—that was my essential ask of “Samsara.” The idioms were used if they felt emotionally genuine.

Can you share a moment when you felt called to dance Kathak? There is a section evoking death where we introduce this sloka [Sanskrit verse]. I remember hearing it as a child. It feels very Vedic. The way we originally created this section was that I chanted the verse, and everyone had to learn it―including Hu. He then had to translate the words and match it with a Tibetan prayer fitting the beats of both together. When we layered them, we had two different languages going at the same time. This became my solo based on the Hindu deity Shiva. He is considered the Lord of creation, preservation, and destruction. I used this prayer, or sloka, for my solo around the idea of death, where two beings separate. I felt very strongly about the composition of this section, which I worked on with the composer. At that moment, Hu gets to relax. All through my dance, he is still―literally in a pose of one-pointed concentration like a serene Buddha.

You spoke of going on meditative retreat after the premiere of “Samsara.” Yes, I took the opportunity to go deep within. I cut everything off. I shut myself in my room and sat in meditation with no food, no water, and no getting up. I think I sat there in the same place for a couple of days. It was incredible, because it’s only when you shut out the external world and you have time to be silent that you can hear the whispers that are constantly speaking to you but are drowned out by the noise of life. That experience was incredibly awakening and powerful. It afforded a great decluttering of my mind. It was almost a kind of dying that led me to emerge again like a butterfly. When a caterpillar goes through its metamorphosis and emerges with wings, it suddenly sees the world from a different perspective. I felt like that.

You have called the monk’s journey in Journey to the West a journey for truth. This story essentially replicates the Buddha’s own search for truth. Yes, and even our own journeys. Hu and I both left our respective homes at age 15. He made a thirty-six-hour journey from his village and ended up at the Beijing Dance Academy’s doorstep. I left England and went off on a journey to India without any idea as to where I was going. Ultimately, all these journeys were about the search. The search for what? There was no defined or tangible destination. But something was compelling us, pushing us, and moving us to look for something that is beyond the life we see around us … something beyond samsara.