A Time to Dance (11 page)

NAILS
and
SPEARS

Thrust out of a nightmare

I wake to

pain.

Feel

nails and spears.

Jabbing.

Flesh throbbing beneath my knee

where nothingness should be.

My bladder is full.

I feel for my crutches.

Not by my bed

where they should be.

Clenching my teeth to keep from crying out,

I fumble for the light switch.

Paati's bed creaks as she shifts.

Her breathing sounds harsher than normal.

I mustn't wake her.

My frantic fingers

grope through the blackness

searching

for my crutches—or my leg.

At last I find

my leg under my bed.

A sputter of relief.

Tacking it on,

bladder almost bursting,

I hurl myself toward the bathroom.

Yank at the door.

My leg isn't

on properly.

I slip

on the cold tiles

of the bathroom floor.

Between my legs

a shameful trickle

I can't

control.

Lying in a yellow pool,

wetness seeping through my nightclothes,

I yank off the thing pretending to be my limb.

Shove it away

into the darkness.

I strip, clean myself, crawl,

find bleach and a sponge,

swab my mess off the tiles.

Naked. Wretched.

I notice Ma hovering—

holding my leg aloft

like a banner begging for truce.

How much of my degrading drama has she seen?

I fling words at her like shards of glass,

aiming to slash her apart.

“My accident was the answer to your prayers, wasn't it?

Happy I can't dance anymore?”

Ma lays the leg down beside me.

Cups my chin so I can't turn away.

Crouching,

she brushes the top of my forehead

with a kiss.

I don't remember the last time

Ma kissed me.

Long ago

maybe.

When I was a baby.

I'm too startled to pull away.

THE BEHOLDER

Jim's eyebrows shoot up in surprise

as I enter his office on crutches

and crumple into a chair.

“My dance teacher threw me out of his dance school.”

“No way,” Jim says.

His jaw clenches.

Then he bursts out, “What a fool.

What a poor excuse for a teacher.

You'll be an amazing dancer one day

and he'll regret his stupidity.

His loss, not yours, kiddo.”

Hearing Jim's voice shake with anger

on my behalf,

I feel almost happy. I show him the red skin of my residual limb.

Jim whistles but he doesn't tell me how stupid I was.

I apologize. “I know I should've waited longer

but I tried dancing.

My knee wouldn't give enough.

It was so inflexible.

I fell when I tried full-
mandi
.”

“You mean the pose in which

you lower your body all the way down

until you're sitting on your heels

with your legs folded under you

balancing on your toes with your knees to the sides?”

I nod, impressed at Jim's knowledge.

Hoping I don't sound whiny, I tell him,

“I can't dance without assuming that posture.”

“Don't panic, kiddo. You know I've been reading up

on what your art demands of the body.”

He waves at his bookshelf.

“You're giving me

just the kind of feedback I need

to adjust this trial limb.

And I'm going to make you a final prosthesis

that lets you sit cross-legged on the floor.

That's my challenge.

Your challenge is to

grind that fool's memory into the dust

under your dancing heels

and find a new dance teacher

who sees how special you are.”

VISIONS

Jim saying I'm special

makes me feel brave enough to, with Chandra's help,

look up the dancer Paati admired—Dr. Dhanam.

“Great!” Chandra cries triumphantly.

She reads off the computer screen

a long list of Dr. Dhanam's accomplishments.

“Doctorate in classical dance, performed all over the world,

on the advisory board of practically every
Indian college dance program,

even some American universities.

Gave up performing years back.

Says she'll spend the rest of her life teaching.

Runs a dance school on her gorgeous home estate.

Perfect.”

“Chandra, what if—if—she says no?”

“There's only one way to find out,” Chandra says.

I look at the photograph of Dr. Dhanam.

Pointed chin, sharp nose,

arms triangulating over her head, elbows angled,

palms together.

All angles, corners, straight edges.

Except her eyes—

soft as velvety moss on a rock face.

Her face glows—ecstatic, blissful—

the way saints' faces must look

when granted

divine visions.

For the first time since the accident,

I hear the faint echo of a dancing rhythm.

Thaiya thai. Thaiya thai.

TO DANCE
AGAIN

Dr. Dhanam agrees to interview me

although I explain

I'm one-legged.

Hope coils inside me like a wound spring

as I walk up the shady drive that leads from the gate

past an open-air stage beneath a banyan tree

to a three-story mansion on her estate.

A maid shows me into a hall.

I sit waiting on the edge of an antique chair,

my foot tracing circles on the cold, hard floor.

Dr. Dhanam enters.

Her eyes take me in

without comment or pity.

Thank you, I think.
“Namaskaram,”
I say,

pressing my palms together,

bowing my head low

in greeting, gratitude, and relief.

“Namaskaram, Veda. You may call me Dhanam akka.

You want to join my dance school? Why?”

“Ma'am—Dhanam akka—

I am—I mean I was—I mean I want to be

a dancer,” I stammer.

“I started twelve years ago.

Performed onstage for a while.

Until I had an accident—

after I won a Bharatanatyam competition—”

“Bharatanatyam is not

about winning or losing,” she interrupts.

“Competition distracts dancers

into thinking

this art is about them.

Art should be about something larger and deeper than self.”

“But—didn't Shiva Himself compete at dance?

With His wife?”

Akka's thin eyebrows arch up.

She seems surprised I'm contradicting her. But also pleased.

She says, “Good to have a young one

stand up to me every now and then.

But you have forgotten, or perhaps not been taught,

the inner meaning of this parable.

The competition—between Shiva and His wife—

represents the longing

our limited human souls have

to understand and unite

with the divine soul.”

Her tone is kind enough

but I feel foolish that I missed

knowing the deeper meaning of a story I performed.

“So, you want to relearn dance. But why come here, Veda?

Why not return to your old teacher?”

“He didn't want me back.” I hope

I don't sound too angry at him.

“I see.” She waits for me to say more.

Her silver toe-rings tap impatiently on the floor.

Thai thai. Thai thai.

The sound is a snatch of music, a dance rhythm,

carrying me back in time.

I see a little girl on her father's shoulders,

yearning to touch the feet of divine dancers

carved into temple walls.

I see her on a stepladder placing her hand on her chest,

feeling Shiva's dancing feet

in the beat of her heart.

“When I was little I felt my heart was beating

to the sound

of God's dancing feet.

Everywhere, in everything,

I could hear music to dance to.

When I grew up that music grew fainter

and I started to love applause.

I want someone who can help me feel dance

the way I used to.

I miss feeling dance inside me.

I miss hearing music in everything.”

Akka gives me a sharp nod.

Encouraged, I continue. “My grandma said she saw
you dancing long ago.

That you treated dance as a sacred art,

an offering of devotion to God.

And I think I felt that way a little when I was young.

I want a teacher who can help me learn about that.”

Akka's gaze pierces me. “Veda, if you want to relearn dance,

You'll need to begin at the beginning.”

“Along with the little ones?”

Part of me cringes at the thought.

But I straighten up,

look her in the eye, and say, “Yes.”

“As for fees, Veda, I do things the old way here.

Each student gives me whatever they can.

Some students pay nothing.

I leave it up to them

and their parents to decide what they can afford.”

I'm her student already?

Without having to prove what I can or can't do physically?

And she doesn't care whether I pay?

It feels too good to be true. I stutter my thanks,

explain about the new limb I'll be getting soon.

Akka sets a date for my first lesson and says,

“Govinda, the student who teaches the beginners,
is about your age.

You'll learn from him until

you're ready to learn from me.

Come, I'll take you to him.”

GREETING
GRACE

Dhanam akka leads me toward an airy classroom.

Pausing outside the door, I hear a sound I've missed:

the sound of feet raining a dance rhythm on the ground,

a sound that fills me with a desperate longing for dance

the way a wilting plant must long for water.

“Govinda!” akka calls.

A boy walks out of the classroom.

His body

long and muscular. Back perfectly straight.

A dancer's body.

His hair

a sheet of midnight. Sleek, shiny, shoulder length.

His eyes

pools of honey. Deep brown, flecked with gold.

“Govinda, this is Veda,” akka says. “She was a dancer

but met with an accident

that cost her her right foot.

You'll be helping her relearn dance.”

If Govinda feels shocked that he's getting a student who is a below-knee amputee, he doesn't show it.

He presses his elegant, clove-dark hands together,

closes his eyes, and greets me the traditional way. “Namaskaram.”

His voice matches his looks—deep, rich, smooth.

The grace with which he bows his head and hands,

the seriousness with which he says Namaskaram,

as though he's chanting a prayer,

remind me of what the greeting means—

that he salutes the God within me.

When I return his greeting, pressing my palms together,

it feels magical instead of mechanical.

Govinda's gaze meets mine

and I burn with a desire to dance myself beautiful

in front of him.