I take my seat in the crowded tea house, surprised at how many people are inside. It has been many years since I was in such an establishment and I had not noticed how popular such an event had become. Glancing about the throng of voyeurs, I notice a few are Westerners, eager to see one of the national treasures the tea house has to offer. The Westerners are not tourists; they could not afford the high prices set by the establishment. These were businessmen, their suits and ties almost matching the hues of their Japanese counterparts. They sat together in their groups, tea and sake in hand. I myself am an honoured guest and always have a place at the front of the stage.

The structure of the tea house is mostly wood, designed in such a way to protect the privacy of its patrons. Angled screen doors add to the privacy, intricate designs prevented any spying or eavesdropping. Candles were the only illumination, kept away from the walls but far enough for moving space. Usually, excessive candles were avoided, but tonight was considered a special occasion. It was not every day the personification of a nation graced the tea house with his visit.

The lights become dim as the entertainment begins. Before me stands a woman of great, ethereal beauty. Her jet black hair has been arranged in a takashimada, a high chignon held together with decorative gold and ivory pins. Thick white make-up painted perfectly even over face, neck and chest. The eyebrows and eyes had been traced in black and her lips were the colour of roses, the bottom painted in only a strip to create the illusion of a rosebud. At the nape of her neck, two areas had been left exposed, forming a W shape. I avert my eyes at the erotic display, colour staining my cheeks.

To the side, an artisan sits in a secluded corner, shamisen in hand. A small music stand was arranged in front of the artisan; she shuffled with the music sheets, bachior plectrum in hand. She wore no make-up and her hair was arranged in a simplistic shimada. She began to tune her shamisen, head bowed. She was not the focus for tonight's entertainment.

Silence settles within the crowded room. The dancer takes a moment to ready herself, arranging her obi and striking a starting pose as the artisan readies her instrument. The starting pose is struck and the music begins.

A voice as clear as the nightingale cuts through the room, snaring everyone present and lulling them into a hushed awe. The dancer swirls, holding long colourful sleeves in her hand. A step, a graceful flourish of limbs, a tilt of the head...

It is as if I have entered a different world. As if I have been given a brief, privileged glimpse into a place inhabited by angels. I am caught in a hypnotic spell, my eyes unable to blink. Fabric swishes and swirls, the dancer's body moving with sharp precision then STOP! The figure becomes rigid in perfect form. Heart stops, glimpsing a moment of perfection, of glorious beauty then STOP! Fluid movements, cloth swirling and floating in myriad colours.

All focus draws to the painted beauty, a kaleidoscope of colours meshed together in unison. Greens, golds, reds, purples, yellows and whites... a graceful pattern on silk, held tight by a patterned white and blue obi. Soft hair decked with pins, shimmering and reflecting candlelight. Skin so white, lips so red...

A step, a twist or wrists, a tilt of a head and STOP! Breath catches in lungs, blood pulses loudly in ears as a perfect pose is struck. A twag of shamisen, the voice of the nightingale calling through the night, causing the body to move, limbs in perfect synchronicity. Sleeves caught and pulled, feet rise and fall without a sound, eyes slowly blink... perfection...

Music increases, movements match, pulses quicken and eyes glistening with wonder. More, more motion, fluid like water and strong like stone, the crescendo rising. A flurry of limbs, voice and shamisen then STOP!

...

A heart pounds in a chest, a tear trickles down a cheek, a hand clutches a throat. The world falls away, ethereal beauty is all that this moment is for...

The voice sounds once more, then a folding of limbs followed by a bow. Hands clap and the world returns. A thumb wipes away the tear away, blood starts to pulse again. The lights return, blinding for an instant.

Too be a witness of such perfection...

A hand rests on my shoulder, bringing me out of my trance. I see a familiar face and a smile from a businessman I know. I avert my eyes in politeness, but cannot deny the grin that sneaks onto my face as I slowly rise and make my way through the crowds.

It is always an honour to watch a Geisha dance...


Note: If I've made a mistake with the geisha world and any terms, please let me know and I'll amend it. I'm no expert on Japanese culture; I hope that doesn't show too much!

If you're wondering about the title, it is still said that geisha inhabit a separate reality which they call the karyƫkai or "the flower and willow world."