A Time to Dance (23 page)

LETTERS
and
WORDS

Waiting at home are two envelopes addressed to me.

One is in Govinda's slanted handwriting.

Inside it, I find three sketches:

the first of the lotus pond where we sat together,

the second

of two hands shaping the symbol for an eagle in flight,

the third of a boy and a girl flying a kite.

He writes:

Dear Veda,

Happy birthday.

Love,

Govinda.

My feelings leap and plunge like waves.

Plunge because his message is so short.

Leap because he remembered

and cared enough

to draw scenes of the times

our togetherness felt magical.

Stroking his signature, I reread it twice.

He called me dear. He signed love.

Does he call everyone “dear”?

Always sign with “love”?

I pluck up my courage and write Govinda a note.

Dear Govinda,

Thanks for the birthday wishes.

Let's talk sometime?

Maybe we can meet at the stage beneath the banyan tree after my class, some evening when you can take a break from studies?

Love,
Veda

I read my note aloud to test

whether it's enough or too little or too much.

Trying to stop worrying what Govinda will think of it,

I drop it in the mailbox.

The other card is from my old rival, Kamini.

“Veda, Many happy returns of the day, Kamini.”

Kamini, whom I've almost forgotten,

remembers my birthday.

Kamini, whom I've hardly thought of,

thinks of me.

She wishes me well even though the last time we met

I was rude and left her crying

in the middle of the road.

Looking at her card, I feel self-centered.

Childish.

Anything but a year older.

I start writing Kamini a letter.

Crumple the paper, toss it away.

Look at her address, scrawled on the envelope.

Sometime after my birthday,

I'll go to her home and tell her I'm sorry.

CRESCENT SMOOTH

Pa and Ma have invited Radhika and Chandra over

in the evening for a not-so-surprise

birthday party.

Pa's bought a cake and decorated the front room.

Ma's cooked dinner.

I've prepared our entertainment:

mixed henna powder with hot lemon juice

so we can paint henna tattoos on our skin.

I ask if I may invite another guest.

“Sure,” Pa says. “Even a boy.”

“Your friend Govinda?” Ma suggests.

I shake my head.

I change into the blue batik skirt that ends above my knee

and walk downstairs to the Subramaniams' apartment,

my legs no longer hidden.

Shobana gazes at my outfit and gives me a thumbs-up sign,

though her mother purses her lips.

Mrs. Subramaniam probably finds my skirt too short

but at least she doesn't say so.

And she nods enthusiastically

when I invite Shobana upstairs.

Chandra offers to play henna artist.

“Birthday girl, which hand

would you like me to paint first?”

I sit in Paati's wicker chair.

Stretch out my legs.

“Feet first, please?”

She paints identical patterns on both feet,

from the tips of my toes to below my ankles.

When she's done, my feet look exactly alike,

covered with curly jasmine creepers,

hearts, lines, flowers, stars, spirals, circles.

That night, I reach under the covers.

Stroke the skin of my residual limb.

My C-shaped scar is smooth to the touch.

And it's shrunk into a crescent

thin as the last sliver of the waning moon.

SKIPPING STONE

I pause by the gate of Kamini's home.

Through a window, I see her

racing through a set of steps,

her blouse dark with sweat.

She is a pebble skipping

over the surface of a lake.

As I once was.

Not a deep sinking stone that leaves widening ripples behind

after it's disappeared.

As I hope to be.

I knock and Kamini answers the door.

“I came to thank you, Kamini.

For remembering my birthday.

For visiting me in the hospital.

It was so nice of you.

I'm sorry I never—”

“Not nice,” Kamini interrupts.

“I did a horrid thing.

After you won that competition, I . . .”

She chokes up, then continues.

“I prayed something would happen so you

could never dance again.

But I never thought—I never wanted—

I'm so very sorry.”

“You did what?” I say.

Kamini flinches

as though I hit her.

I didn't think anyone

could be that spiteful.

But it takes courage

to confess something like that.

I put my hand on her elbow.

“Do you really think

bad things happen

if someone prays?

I'm not sure who or what there is out there we pray to

but I doubt things work that way.”

“So you forgive me?” Kamini asks.

“Sure.” I shrug.

“Thanks,” she says,

but her voice is hesitant, like she's having trouble believing me.

“Kamini? I'm still dancing.”

“You—you are? Bharatanatyam?”

“Yes. Bharatanatyam.”

“Thank God. Thank God. Veda, next time you compete,

I hope you win, I swear.”

“Kamini, to me, dance isn't about competitions any longer.

And it might sound crazy,

but I'm not upset about the accident anymore.

The accident made me a different kind of dancer.”

Kamini shakes her head like she doesn't understand.

But I don't know how to explain

that my love for dance is deeper.

That dance feels more meaningful now.

So I just give her hand a quick squeeze.

And she says, “I'm so glad you stopped by.

Thanks for taking the time to make me feel better.”

TO TOUCH

Sitting in a chair with my students crowding around me,

I take my leg off.

Let them touch it.

As I tell them about my accident

even Uma inches forward.

“My old teacher didn't think I could dance again.

But dance isn't about who you are on the outside.

It's about how you feel inside.”

I place my palms together in front of me,

symbolizing the two leaves of a closed door.

Move them apart, slowly, opening the door.

“In class, you need to shut out

sad thoughts and mean words.

So dance can let you

enter another world.

A world where you feel Shiva inside you.

Where you grow beautiful and strong and good,

because Shiva is goodness and strength and beauty.”

We begin to dance.

Uma's eyes follow me around the classroom.

I should correct her.

I should direct her gaze toward her fingertips.

I don't.

Because Uma's scarf is loose around her shoulders.

Because when it slithers to the floor,

she doesn't stoop to pick it up.

Because head erect, chin lifted,

she's joined the very front row

and she's giving me an uncovered smile.

DANCING
THANKS

After the children trickle out,

I go outside and

raise my eyes to the heavens,

my palms pressed together,

thanking God for Uma's smile.

Like a farmer welcoming a long-awaited monsoon

I dance onto the empty stage

beneath the shaggy banyan tree.

A crescent moon is barely visible

in the mauve glow of the evening sky.

In it

I see the crescent caught in Shiva's matted locks.

In it

I see the crescent scar on my residual limb.

I shift my weight from one leg to the other,

turning in a circle.

Slowly.

Each green leaf above

looks purer and brighter than ever.

For my invisible audience

of the One

I

begin

to dance.

Colors blur into whiteness

and a lilting tune

that is and is not of the world

resonates within

and without me.

My body

feels

whole.

In the beat of my heart

I hear

again

the eternal rhythm

of Shiva's feet.

REACHING IN

“Good.”

I look up to see Dhanam akka

standing in front of me.

“Good,” she repeats.

A word I've never heard

her say to me until today.

“I am a teacher and yet

there are limits to what I can teach.

I cannot teach a student how to create

the sacred space a meditative dancer enters,

and so invites her audience to enter.

She must discover it on her own.

Alone beneath this banyan tree today

you danced without any desire for acclaim.

So your dancing feet led you

into the temple of the dancing Shiva

where they will always lead you, and those who watch,

as long as you dance for your vision of the sacred.

You carried my soul to a great height.

Thank you.”

I

should be thanking

her.

“I'd like you to start

solo lessons with me,” akka continues.

“But, akka—

I'm not yet—I'm not advanced enough.”

“Aren't you?” Laughter

spills out of akka,

her mouth

thrown open so wide

I can see both rows of her teeth.

“There are three kinds of love, Veda.

A healthy love of one's physical self,

compassion for others,

and an experience of God.

Most of my students take decades

to experience these loves through dance.

Yet you are already starting to understand all three.

So I shall do all I can to ensure

your wish to become a dancer is fulfilled.”

I want to say—do—something to thank her.

But my tongue and my hands and my head

feel too heavy with joy

to move.

“A guru is a kind of parent.

And although you are not my daughter now,

perhaps you were in a previous life.

Or will be in a future one.”

Akka rests a hand briefly on my forehead.

Then she leaves.