A Time to Dance (24 page)

STRETCHING AHEAD

As I leave the stage beneath the banyan tree,

I see

Govinda racing up the drive toward me.

“Veda, I got your note and I came to tell you

news I hope you'll be happy about.

I'm sorry it took me so long to share this with you

but it hasn't been easy.”

Govinda's tone is nervous,

words streaming out faster than usual.

“With akka's help, I found a dance scholarship

with room and board.

I told my parents I was going to move out and take it.

My dad threw a fit.

He threatened to cut me out of his will.

But my mom sided with me

and my dad's made peace.

Maybe my finding that scholarship

finally made them both see

what dance meant to me.”

“That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you!

But akka never said a word about all this.

Radhika didn't either.”

“Only because I wanted to tell you myself, Veda.

I needed to work things out. Trust I'd be able to do it.

Please don't be angry—

I won't keep things from you again.”

“You're always keeping things from me,” I tease.

“I never knew you were a talented artist

until you sent me those sketches on my birthday.”

“You liked my sketches?

Will you come with me sometime for a cup of coffee?

I'd have asked you out earlier,” he rushes on,

“except I felt I didn't deserve you.

You're so strong and such a fighter.

I was always doing exactly what my parents wanted.

Until now.

So, yes or no, Veda?”

“Yes or no what?”

“Will you go out with me for a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I prefer tea, thank you.”

FADING PHANTOMS

Govinda meets me at an outdoor café.

We sit at a table

under a pipul tree.

The type of tree that ripped up my life.

And so the tree that helped me lose

and find dance.

My limb feels hot and sweaty.

I unclick my right leg, roll the socks off my residual limb,

expose my skin to the cool breeze.

A big yellow Labrador runs over from a neighboring table

and sniffs at my residual limb.

As the dog's tail brushes against my crescent-moon scar,

my phantom limb tingles into life.

But it tickles instead of prickling with pain.

I laugh. Uncontrollably.

“What?” Govinda says. “What?”

“The dog's brought my ghost sensation back.

Except this time, my leg's tickling me.”

Govinda yanks the dog away and glances

at the space below my limb

as if he's searching for my phantom.

I take his hand,

lead it to the nonexistent length of leg.

His fingers feel soft.

His fingers feel good

stroking my invisible skin.

So good I want him stroking my real skin.

Want to reach out and stroke his.

My desire scares me and I reach for the safety of my teacup.

My ghost limb fades.

Govinda lays a hand on my cheek.

I lean into his touch.

He looks shy

and almost as scared

as I was just feeling.

I burst out laughing.

Never imagined we'd share being scared

the first time we went out together.

“What's so funny now?”

“You. You look so frightened.”

“I am frightened.” He exhales.

Then smiles and slides

closer to me.

TEMPLE
of the
DANCING GOD: REVISITED

Some places that sprawl in childhood memories

shrivel in size when revisited.

But the temple of the dancing God

feels just as large when I visit again,

honored with an invitation to perform there at a dance festival;

not any smaller than when I, as a child

touching sculpted feet,

first craved the gift of dance

He gave our world.

Before my performance begins on the outdoor stage,

I pour a handful of white jasmine blossoms

at the dancing feet of the bronze Shiva.

From a lofty corner a celestial dancer

smiles at me.

Beneath another curtained sanctum

where an empty space represents God as formless,

I bow; and bow to the crystal symbolizing God

as the fragmented light within us

that strengthens through each compassionate act

as our souls progress from one life to the next.

Akka's cymbals strike a crisp, clear note,

calling me to the open-air stage

where Ma, Pa, Chandra, and Govinda wait

with the rest of the audience.

I close my outward-seeing eyes and meditate

on the spot between my brows

covered by the dot of sacred vermillion.

Noises of night harmonize with the drumbeats.

Music

fills and lifts

me.

My body feels small as a speck of silvered dust

swirling upward in a cone of moonlight.

I dance

dance

dance.

Beyond

movement

for one long moment:

shared

stillness.

Then applause pierces the night

like the chirping of sparrows at dawn.

Closing my eyes to the blinding glare of the spotlight,

I salute the infinite presence within everyone in the crowd,

then slip away

until the clapping sounds as distant

as an echo from a past life.

Alone in the soft darkness of the temple courtyard,

I trace the curves of all ten perfect toes

with my fingertips.

And touch the sacred earth

beneath

both my beautiful feet.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

One of my earliest memories is of Smt. Shoba Sharma as a girl, dancing at my brother's wedding ceremony. She became a performer and dance teacher despite suffering serious physical injury. This work of fiction is inspired by her life and the lives of other dancers who overcame physical trauma, such as Smt. Sonal Mansingh, Smt. Sudha Chandran, Sri. Nityananda, and Clayton Bates (the disabled African-American tap dancer whose photograph Veda sees on Jim's wall). Smt. Kamala Lakshmi Narayanan, a child prodigy who grew into a famous performer, and Smt. Ambika Buch, an amazing teacher and exponent of the Kalakshetra school, introduced classical dance to me at an early age. My understanding of the spiritual aspect of Bharatanatyam came later, just as Veda's does in the novel. The Sanskrit verses I translated and interpreted here are taken from original texts.

Between the ages of seven and fourteen, I was privileged to have daily lessons in Carnatic music (to which Bharatanatyam dance is set) from Smt. Savitri Rajan, disciple of Veenai Dhanammal. Like akka in the novel, she never accepted payment for her lessons. This book, I hope, serves as a
guru dakshina
to her and to Sri. T. Krishnamacharya, who introduced me to yoga and Vedic chanting, and thus to the universality of spiritual truth that underlies our religious diversity.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, thanks to my brilliant, committed, and enthusiastic editor, Nancy Paulsen, who was immensely patient as this novel evolved. Nancy's ability and dedication to helping me create a story out of the flimsy chaos of early drafts is unparalleled. I am particularly glad Nancy encouraged me to experiment with this novel's form and thus to grow as a writer.

Rob Weisbach is more than an agent; he is my rock. He is critical, intelligent, humorous, generous, kind, sharp, witty, wise, and always wonderful.

Stephen Roxburgh, my most trusted “outside” reader, blessed and honored me with his steadfast belief in Veda's story. His profound insights, comments, and unswerving faith were the guiding light of her journey—from Eros, through Charis, to Agape. Thanks also to Carolyn Coman for her unstinting warmth and encouragement from the very beginning, when I started climbing the stairs as a writer.

Several poets broadened my understanding and helped in different ways: Richard Blanco, Peter Covino, Rigoberto Gonzalez, Peter Johnson, Scott Hightower.

Sincerest gratitude to the many gracious artists who took time to share with me: Sri V. P. Dhananjayan, Ahalya Bhaskar, Smt. Angelika Sriram, Smt. Bragha Bessel, Jaya Teacher, Kavya Suresh, Smt. Lakshmi Ramaswamy, Smt. Maya Shekar, Mala Ramadorai, Smt. Nithya Vaidyanarayanan, Smt. Renuka Subramaniam, Smt. Shoba Sharma, Smt. Sumitra Gautama,
Smt. Sashikala Ananthanarayanan, Sri J. Suryanarayana Murthy, Smt. Sudha Chandran, Dr. Sudha Gopalakrishnan, Smt. Sumangali Neroor, Smt. Saraswathi Vasudevan, Uma Venkatraman.

Heartfelt thanks to the generous medical personnel and differently abled persons who spoke to me and especially to those who read a draft and supported me: Mr. Robert C. James, CPO, Mr. Joshua James, CPO, and Ms. Becky Blaine of South County Limb and Brace in Wakefield, Rhode Island; Smt. Ambika Kameshwar, director of the Rasa-Arpita Center for Theater Arts and Special Needs and the Academy for Research and Performance of Indian Theater Arts; Dr. S. Sunder, Founder and Managing Trustee, Foundation for the Rehabilitation, Education and Empowerment of the Disabled of Madras; Ms. Meena Dhadha and the staff and patients at Mukti Charitable Center, M.S. Dhadha Foundation; Mr. Michael Nunnery of Nunnery Orthotics, North Kingstown, Rhode Island; Staff of Prosthetic Artworks, LLC, Pennsylvania; Dr. Marakatham Venkatraman, Dr. Ashok Venkatraman, Dr. Venkatesh Balasubramaniam, Dr. Jeff Bachmann, Dr. Kevin Dennehy, Dr. S. Devarajan, Dr. Juergen Dolderer, Dr. Sue Ferranti, Dr. T. V. Jayaraman, Dr. S. Jay Jayshankar, Dr. Sandeep Murali, Dr. Elwira Pyz, Dr. Raman Srinivasan, Dr. Lynn Ho; John Bezak, Jeannine Atkins, Judy Begalau, Betty Cotter, Lakshmi Chayapathi, Jim Cipelewski, Kathleen Gremel, Jyoti Ganesh, Mary Heikes, Anne Herman, Maria Iacuele, Kris King, Kevin Klitze, Treacy Lewander, Sarah Ornstein, Sarah Lamstein, Emily Petit, Vicki Palmquist, Linda Pavonetti, Susanna Reich, McCall Robertson, Laurie Rothenberg, Kay Schenk, Maura Stokes, Carole G. Vogel, Maiité van Hentenryck, Sara Kreger, Jacqueline Woodson.

Finally, much more than mere thanks to my spouse, Rainer Lohmann, and our daughter, Karuna, for the love that nurtures and sustains me.