A Time to Dance (17 page)
Authors: Padma Venkatraman
My room feels deathly silent
without Paati's breath lulling me to sleep.
I run my fingertips over the feet
of my bronze statue of Shiva dancing
on the table between our beds.
“Please. Let Paati come back home.”
Moonlight drips into the dark room.
I slip out of bed, crawl on the floor,
yank open the metal trunk beneath Paati's bed,
in which she stores her things,
and drink in the soothing basil-aloe scent of her soap.
Paati's saris glow,
a shell-bright patch of white.
I take a sari out of the trunk.
Lay it on my pillow.
Bury my face in it.
Let it soak up my tears.
Bathed in her fragrance and her softness,
I drift toward sleep.
Lying in her hospital bed, in her white sari,
Paati looks like a ghost.
I rub her fingers. “Are you in pain? How are you feeling?”
“Well enough to get out of here soon.
Tell me about you,” Paati says.
I half sob, half laugh with relief. “I'm okay.”
“Tell me more or I'll throw you out myself,” she says.
“Paati, I'm waiting for you to come back. I miss you so much
I've been praying to my Shiva at night.”
Paati circles my wrist with her fingers. Her touch is frail
but her eyes brighten and she says, “Good.”
I stroke the folds of skin on her cheeks, her forehead,
the silvery strands of her hair spread out on the pillow,
thin as strips of moonlight on a cloud.
A nurse pokes in, saying
an old student of Paati's wants to see her,
can she let the woman in?
“So many years since I taught.
Yet students keep remembering and returning with love.
Maybe you should try teaching dance someday.
Maybe if I've accumulated enough good Karma,
I'll be one of your students in my next life.” She chuckles.
I don't. I don't want to think about Paati's future lives.
I'm just glad she's still here, near me,
in this one.
of
ATOMS
Chandra comes over to ask about Paati.
I ask her to go to the temple with me
so we can pray for Paati's health.
We walk past the empty lot
where Paati and I met the beggar
who wished me better Karma in my next life.
Lightning and thunder rip the sky.
Within moments, the road turns into a brown river.
Plastic bags, banana peels, coconut husks
float on the dirty water like disoriented boats.
Chandra and I shelter
under the eaves of a nearby fruit vendor's hut.
Craning my neck,
I see the beggar
crouched beneath his tarpaulin, shivering.
I have so much, even though I lost a leg.
I have Chandra walking beside me,
Govinda helping me relearn what I love,
Ma and Pa both supporting me,
Paati still alive and soon to return home.
But the question I asked Paati returns to me.
Why did God leave that beggar with nothing?
“Chandra, do you believe in God? In Karma?
If He's the soul of compassion, why does He let people suffer?”
Chandra shrugs.
“Physics says every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
Karma is kind of the same, isn't it?
Good actions result in rewards, sooner or later.
If you cause suffering, instead, something bad will return to you.
As for God, the fact that atoms are inside everything
tells me God is within us all.
I see His cosmic dance of creation as
the spinning of electrons within every atom.
Science is God enough for me.”
But not
for me.
I think of the last time I was at this temple with Paati,
her silver head bent in prayer, so empowered by her faith.
The image of her, so sure, so firm in her belief,
gives me comfort.
And though I'm not sure what God means to me
or if He hears me,
I pray as hard as I can
for Paati's safe return home.
SHIVA
Home from the hospital,
Paati can no longer pray sitting cross-legged
on the floor in front of our household altar.
I offer to bring the other deities to our bedside table
where my Shiva dances.
Paati shakes her head.
So instead, I fetch the bottle of oil.
As I massage her,
Paati says, “Objects of prayer used to help me focus my mind.
I don't need them anymore.
Shiva dances everywhere.
In everyone. In everything.”
YOGA
In class with Govinda,
I fall almost at once.
He pulls me to my feet,
his eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Something's wrong.”
“My grandma had a heart attack.
She's home now, but I'm so scaredâ” My voice breaks.
He strokes my back. “I'm glad she's better now.”
His voice is a soothing balm.
I add, “Akka says I'm clearly showing my pain,
but not the peace Gautami found after accepting her loss.
I don't feel peaceful, Govinda.
I can't show what I don't know.”
Govinda stands erect.
Starts
moving
slower than I thought possible.
Watching his body flow
from one pose to the next,
moving in concert with the rise and fall of his chest,
is as calming
as watching clouds drift across a blue sky.
“Dance is a form of yoga.
Natya
yoga,” he says.
“Marry your movement with your breath.
Rest your palms on mine.” He extends his hands toward me,
his palms beneath mine,
offering gentle support.
I discover it isn't easy to dance so slowly.
If anything, it's harder than going fast.
When I go slow, every asymmetry is magnified.
“Veda? Don't worry about how you look.
About anything.”
Breath for deep breath, I match Govinda.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
We breathe as one.
Our paired breath is the only sound in the room.
“Some of us meditate through movement,” Govinda says.
“Meditation isn't about pushing your body,
it's about respecting it,
the way you'd respect
every other space within which God dwells.”
My breath doesn't race
like it used to when I danced fast and furious.
There's no rush of blood to my head.
No gush of excitement in my chest.
Dancing slowly makes a new feeling
of joy enter my body.
A joy that seems longer lasting
than the bubbles of delight that rose within me
when I danced in the past.
As I relax, I sense how tightly I'd reeled in my chest,
holding myself as tensely as a warrior queen,
charging into battle,
weighted down by armor.
I feel
Govinda peeling
my armor away.
After dance rehearsal, Radhika invites me
to her birthday party.
“I live next door to Govinda.
He'll be there,” she says.
A pang of jealousy pricks me like a needle
but she adds, as if to reassure me, “He's like my brother.
We've been neighbors since we were three.”
I feel relieved,
until she says, “I've never seen him so crazy
about any other girl.”
He was crazy about other girls? Who? I can't help feeling
another jab of envy.
“Party?” Pa rolls the word in his mouth
when I ask permission to go. “Party? Girls only?”
“Only a few boys. From the dance class. Please?”
I don't remember begging for anything else.
Ma tells Pa, “It's during the
day.
At a
girl's
home. Her
parents
will be there.
And that nice boy, Govinda, whom we met.
Of course
she should go.”
Forced to agree with Ma, Pa says yes.
I thank him.
And fling my arms around Ma.