A Time to Dance (18 page)
Authors: Padma Venkatraman
in a
LOTUS LAKE
In the over-cooled air of Radhika's parents' mansion,
after my hot, dusty bus ride,
I shiver.
My loose kurti shirt and long salwar trousers
look frumpy
compared to the tight tops and short skirts
every other girl seems to be wearing.
And I feel flat-footed as they tower over me
in high heels that
clip-clop
across the marble floor.
I want to run out the carved front door
at which I left my slippers the way I would
at any normal Indian home,
instead of keeping them on like the others have
as though we're in some hotel.
My naked toes curl and dig into my foot.
I feel uglier and more out of place
than a warty toad stuck in a lake full of lotuses.
“Veda! I was waiting for you.”
Govinda offers me the warmth of his hand and I take it.
He leads me up a sweep of stairs
into a sun-soaked hall where music's playing
and all the furniture's pushed against walls.
Radhika spots me and gives me a hug.
“Thanks so much for coming.”
She looks lovely
in a curve-hugging dress and high-heeled sandals,
her dimpled cheeks accented with rouge.
Even her toes look perfectâ
painted with a soft pink nail polish.
“Dance?” Govinda asks me.
“Don't know how,” I say.
Radhika giggles. “You
don't know how
to dance?”
“Not to this music, I don't.”
“Good thing your teacher is here.” Radhika gives me
a playful shove. “Lesson time, Veda.”
Govinda pulls me to the middle of the room.
“Put your arms on my shoulders.
Now move. With me.”
I sense where he wants me to go
through the tensing and easing of his muscles.
It feels like learning a new language.
I remember daydreaming of dancing this way with Jim.
My stomach clenches with guilt.
But only for a moment.
Jim feels long ago and far away.
I feel the way I did when my cracked ribs finally healed:
delighted to discover there's no longer any pain in my chest.
“Something wrong?” Govinda says. “Did I step on your foot?”
“If you did,
it was the foot that doesn't hurt,” I say.
He smiles.
Dazzling as polished topaz,
the tiny gold flecks in Govinda's eyes
catch and toss
sunlight.
WATER
Paati's tortured breathing wakes me.
A cool predawn breeze shivers in through our window
but sweat lathers Paati's forehead.
She mumbles something,
her words slurred, her eyes unfocused.
“Pa! Ma! Come quickly!”
I grab my crutches, then, realizing I need to use my hands,
I get my leg on instead
and hurry to fetch the small sealed pot
filled with water from the sacred Ganga river.
A copper pot that's sat in a corner of our household altar
for as long as I can remember.
Waiting for a time of death.
I know Paati will want a drink of this water
from the holiest of rivers.
She believes it will help wash away her sins.
Though I don't believe she sinned in this life,
I break open the seal and
dash back to our bedroom,
Ganga water sloshing.
Paati's drawn cheeks
crease into a faint smile.
For a moment her eyes clear.
Her lips part.
I splash some water into her mouth.
She swallows.
My arms tremble.
I pour an unsteady stream on her tongue.
She lifts a hand
as if to touch my cheek
but her hand falls back
on her chest.
Her lips close.
The last of the water
spills on her chin and dribbles
down her neck.
Ma leans forward.
Shuts Paati's eyelids.
Slides her arms around Pa.
Pa covers his face with his hands.
My body feels heavy
but I go to Pa
and stroke his shaking shoulders.
When the heart-shaped leaves
of the pipul tree outside our window
start sifting through the rays of the rising sun,
Ma leaves the room.
I hear her on the phone, telling people Paati's gone.
I stay with Pa.
Hug him tight.
Feel his tears wet my curls as he cries into my hair.
“Paati would have wanted to die this way,” I tell him. “Quietly.
At home. In her bed. The three of us close by.”
He nods, still hunched over.
Finally,
he says, “I didn't think of the Ganga water.
I'm glad you remembered.”
Tears well up within me
but they can't find their way out.
Day breaks in
through the window.
A bucket of gold melting from the sky.
Visitors gather on the sitting room floor in a circle:
the Subramaniams and our other neighbors;
three old students of Paati's;
Pa's and Ma's colleagues;
members of Pa's extended family.
Chandra arrives with her grandma, parents, and sisters.
I lean my head against Chandra's shoulder.
Still, I'm unable to weep.
People speak about Paati's kindness,
her helpfulness, her wonderful cooking,
how brave she was, how unusual a widow for her time,
how her firm faith inspired them.
One of Paati's old students says,
“She taught us not only in class,
but also by setting us an example
of how to act in our lives.”
Mrs. Subramaniam says,
“Your paati treated everyone so lovingly
I'm sure her soul doesn't need to be reborn in the world.
She'll now be united with God.”
Listening to stranger after stranger
speak of Paati with love and admiration,
I begin to understand how Gautami
took comfort in the tales of strangers
after she lost her son.
The strangers' presence feels warm as a blanket.
But not warm enough
to thaw the sea of unshed tears
frozen inside me.
After
Pa leaves with Paati's body for the cremation ground,
others leave but Chandra stays.
She helps
me and Ma clean the house.
Ma is afraid I'll slip and hurt myself
but I mop the floor of what is now
justâmyâbedroom.
Crawling on hands and knees
I dip a sponge in soapy water,
scrub the tiles, wring it dry.
Chandra's cheeks glisten.
Wet as the mopped floor.
I'm a soaked sponge.
Swollen with tears.
to
DANCE
I mail Govinda and akka a note
to say I won't be at our dance school
until Paati's twelve-day mourning period has ended.
A condolence card arrives
signed by akka, Radhika, and Govinda.
Govinda alone also sends a letter.
Dear Veda,
The verse below is from the Bible, not a Hindu text, but
it helped me when my favorite aunt died.
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under Heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to reap;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance . . .
Whenever you feel it's time to dance again,
I'll be here, waiting.
Love,
Govinda.
I sleep with Govinda's letter
under my pillow.