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Dropping her daughter Athira, off at school in her saree, Radha is stared down by a classmate and his vaguely racist mother. Flustered, she trips and blurts that she’s a professional dancer, volunteering herself and Athira for the school’s Summer Annual talent show. With three weeks to make good on the lie, Radha turns to swing, the one dance she has any real connection to, and starts classes with instructor Patrick (not Swayze but also yes Swayze). Athira grows frustrated of being forced to dance with her mother, something she has no interest in. As the show nears, Radha confronts why the lie matters so much to her, and finds her unravelling the multitudes of femininity she’s suppressed. The film closes on Radha taking the stage despite not having any of the answers to the age-old question: “Who am I?”

Radha is a mother, a wife, and a daughter. A home-maker, a leader, and an entrepreneur. An Indian, an immigrant. A woman, a lady, and a girl. But is that all she is? It can ’t be all. It can’t fill in the quiet gaps between putting the kids to bed and setting alarms for 6:00AM, 6:15AM, and 6:30AM. Labels can’t explain the ache to move to a rhythm, the strange desire to surprise her own body, instead of the other way around (menopause!).Have you ever tried to explain what dancing is? Arms flailing, feet spinning, hips shaking. Have you ever tried to explain what life is? “Arms flailing, feet spinning, hips shaking,” might be as close as we get to a real answer.