A Time to Dance (14 page)

EXCHANGES

Govinda walks me out of class.

“Akka asked how you were doing.

I said you're doing so well

we need to start working one-on-one.”

We. Govinda said we.

And he not only thinks of me outside class,

he wants to give me private lessons!

“But—” I hesitate. “It would take up so much of your time.”

“I learn when I teach.

You'd be doing me a favor.”

He looks sincere.

“Or am I not a good enough teacher?”

He sounds hurt.

“You're an amazing teacher!

The best.”

In the dark pools of Govinda's eyes

gold flecks shimmer like fish scales. “Is that a yes?”

I stop short,

feeling suddenly shy. “Yes.”

“Akka has a carpeted study

she sometimes lets older students use.

If we met there, we wouldn't have to worry

about you falling on a hard floor.

I'll ask her if we can use it

and call to schedule a lesson, okay?”

Govinda actually worries about me hurting myself.

I wish my leg would let me twirl with joy.

“Your parents don't have a problem with boys calling,

do they?”

“No,” I say, though I don't actually know.

I've never given a boy my number before.

He couldn't like me.

Could he?

A PARTIAL VICTORY

Alone in akka's carpeted study with me, Govinda chants aloud,

“Thath thai thaam, dhith thai thaam,”

and I try to lunge,

lurch like a drunkard but manage to hold my ground.

“Almost!” Govinda says.

I stamp my foot in frustration.

“Almost means nothing.

A partial victory is a complete defeat.”

“Are you dancing or fighting a war?”

Govinda gives me one of his rare smiles.

If he's trying to be funny, he's failing.

“I'm used to winning over my body.

Now I'm always losing to it.”

My tone wipes the grin off Govinda's face.

“Dance isn't about winning or losing,” he says,

“it's about enjoying how your body moves.”

I kick my right leg out so ferociously I almost lose balance.

“This

isn't

my

body.”

“We all choreograph to our strengths, Veda.

The audience won't see

what you don't show them.”

“I don't want to be a good

handicapped

dancer.

I want to be a good dancer,” I shout.

“You think akka's body has no

limitations?” Govinda shouts back.

“You think because she's older and less flexible

she's not as good a dancer anymore?

Being a good dancer is more

than mastering

every pose there is.”

“We're not talking about every pose there is.

Because of my leg, some poses are off limits.

Entirely.

So I must master

everything else that's possible.

Can't you see that?”

“Some dancers thrill audiences

with exotic poses and excessive speed.

I think you should

care more about entering people's hearts

and elevating their souls

than about entertaining their minds.

I think you should start

getting over your obsession with what you can or can't

do physically.

Bharatanatyam dance is not just

about perfecting your body's skills.”

Govinda sits down and taps out the rhythm

using his block and stick.

Govinda's words

wound me more deeply

than when Kamini

said my dance wasn't spiritual enough

after I won the competition.

We don't speak for the rest of the hour.

I try twisting in the full-sitting pose and leaping into a lunge,

try and fail,

fail many times,

fail spectacularly.

My only accomplishment, when I leave class:

I've fought so hard with Govinda,

I've had no time to think of being embarrassed about Jim.

AS MANY
Perfect Poses
AS PEOPLE

“Govinda doesn't understand me!” I complain to Paati.

“He wants me to skip every pose that's hard

instead of helping me perfect them.

He wants me to skirt hurdles, not leap over them.”

In answer, Paati tells me a story.

“The sage Vyasa once climbed

the snowy peaks of the Himalayas,

where Shiva lives.

Eager to perfect every yoga pose, Vyasa asked Him,

‘How many yoga asanas are there?

I wish to master every pose so I can be the best yogi of all time.'

Shiva replied,

‘There are as many perfect poses as there are people.'

And Vyasa understood that yoga

is about embracing the uniqueness within.

Shiva sees perfection in every sincere effort.

He loves us despite—or maybe because of—

our differences.”

ONLY
Temporarily
ABLE

At the Java Joy café, Chandra jabs her spoon at me.

“How are your private dance lessons going?

Have you been flirting with your dance-teacher boy?”

I choke, scorching the roof of my mouth.

Chandra pats my back until I stop spluttering.

“Flirt? Me? I'm useless with guys.

I blurt out idiotic things in front of them.

Or get angry and push them away.”

“You and Govinda fought?

About what?”

“Govinda insisted everyone has limits

and even able-bodied dancers get old and inflexible.

I got mad

because I'm young and inflexible.”

Telling Chandra what Govinda said,

I realize he wasn't being unreasonable.

On the TV screen, I see Shastri, whom Ma and Pa said

was the “baby” of the national cricket team

when they were young.

Now he's an old man sitting in the commentator's box.

“Call him and apologize,” Chandra advises.

“It must be hard for you to relearn dance, Veda,

but it's not his fault.

Don't fight with him. Flirt with him.”

“He's too serious to flirt with, Chandra.”

“Too serious? Who do you think you are? Ms. Frivolity?”

Chandra lifts another spoonful of froth.

I watch the bubbles burst like weak excuses.

“But the new leg is good?” Chandra asks. “Jim is helping?”

I swirl my teacup so fast, chai slops on the table.

“Chandra, I was so stupid.

I—I—I went and told Jim that I liked
him.
”

Chandra laughs. “Nice try, Veda. I almost believed you.”

She starts mopping up the spilled chai.

Her disbelief makes me feel worse.

“I'm not kidding, Chandra.

Jim was shocked at first. Then really nice about it.

So nothing creepy happened.

I just feel foolish.”

Chandra gapes.

Finally, she says, “I'm sorry.

That was crazy but it took guts.

More guts than most of us have.”

She hugs me. “It'll be okay.

Maybe it's even a good thing you said it.

Gets it off your chest.

Jim was cricket practice; Govinda's the real match.

Match. Get it?”

She looks so pleased with her pun,

she makes me smile.

REACHING
OUT

At home, I dial Govinda's number.

Hang up after two rings.

Silly, silly. I'm not calling to ask him out.

I rehearse my speech:

Govinda, this is Veda. I'm sorry I shouted at you.

I dial and don't hang up. A woman's voice answers.

I assume it's his mother, then realize it's the maid

because she calls me “ma'am”

and I hear her in the background

addressing Govinda with respect: “Govinda, sir.”

“Hello?” His voice is just as musical on the phone

as it is face-to-face.

“Govinda, this is Veda. I'm sorry I shouted at you.”

“That's okay.”

“See you in class tomorrow?”

“Sure.” It's a short word.

Too short for me to tell if he's pleased or not.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Later I wonder

what it's like to be rich and have a live-in maid

who answers the phone.

I ask Ma if it was hard to give up

her wealthy way of life when she married Pa.

“Giving up money wasn't hard,” Ma says.

“But though I was never very close to my

parents or siblings,

it was hard that they cut off contact altogether.

Still is.”

A SENSE
of
NORMAL

Jim invites Ma and Pa to come with me

to meet one last time at his office

and go to his farewell party.

“Hello, kiddo.” Jim looks

as friendly as when we first met.

No awkwardness at all.

The gratitude I feel toward him deepens.

He introduces me and Pa and Ma

to the kind-eyed Indian lady who'll be taking over his “cases,”

though he says, “You're doing so great, kiddo,

you'll only need to see her for a few checkups

until you've worn out your leg.”

Then he walks us over to a large hall

filled with his other patients

who've gathered to say good-bye.

I meet a girl who says she kicks the soccer ball

better with Jim's leg than her own.

A middle-aged woman makes me laugh

as she expounds the virtues of being one-legged:

“Cuts pedicure bills in half.”

At this party, celebrating the legs Jim will leave behind,

two-legged people are in the minority.

We amputees are the norm.

Jim says, “When you're on your first

dance tour in America, kiddo,

call me. I'll be in the front row.”

My throat feels

as rough as his hands

which hold mine

for what might be the last time in this life.

“Thanks, Jim.

For everything.”