A Time to Dance (20 page)

TO STAND

I find Govinda slumped in a chair when I enter akka's study

for our first class together after our performance.

I can't imagine why he looks so defeated.

“Govinda? You were wonderful onstage.”

He doesn't seem to hear me.

“My parents want me to cut back on dance

now that the production is over.

To work with a tutor.

Prepare for college entrance tests.

Become an engineer.

I don't know how I can argue anymore—”

He breaks off and stares at the carpet.

It was hard enough for me just fighting my ma,

having Pa and Paati supporting me.

Govinda has no one in his family backing him up.

I put my hands on his shoulders.

“On top of it all,” Govinda says,

“there's a new beginner class I'm supposed to teach.

I don't want to give up my own dance lessons with akka—

but there's not enough time to do everything.”

“What if I teach your beginner class

so you don't have to give up your own—” I stop short,

shocked by my own words.

Me? A teacher? What am I thinking?

Govinda straightens up as if I lifted a load

off his back.

“That's a great idea. You'd be good for the kids.

You'll love teaching. And I could use the extra time to study.”

Every trace of dullness leaves him.

He looks so relieved

that I can't take back my offer.

“Thanks, Veda.

Thanks so much. Let's talk to akka.”

Hoping akka will refuse to let me teach,

I follow Govinda out of the study.

Unfortunately, akka seems pleased I volunteered

to help him out.

“One learns best through teaching,” she says.

“I'm glad you'd like to teach dance, Veda.”

TEACHING
to
LEARN

A roomful of eager eyes turns toward me.

My voice trembles. “Namaskaram.

My name is Veda.” I think of the grace with which

Govinda imbued that word and gesture the first time we met.

The only little boy in class is first to introduce himself.

“My name is Roshan,” he says, his round face beaming.

He's followed by six small, excited girls.

Only one girl hangs back,

a faded scarf covering her mouth and chin

despite the heat.

“What's your name?” I approach her,

hoping to make her feel welcome.

Her ragged clothes suggest she's one of the poorer students.

“Uma,” she answers, a cautious look in her large eyes,

her scarf muffling her voice.

Is she hiding her face

because she's painfully shy?

I teach the children the starting prayer,

show them how to do the first exercise.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor,

I wipe my sweaty palm dry on my skirt.

I'm not scared to tap out basic rhythms. I know how.

I'm not even worried about how I'll look dancing

the basic exercises in front of the children;

I can manage all of them, if imperfectly.

What frightens me is living up to the example Govinda set.

Govinda, so generous, caring, concerned.

Paati's voice whispers in my mind. “I was a teacher.

Your pa is a teacher. It's in your blood.”

Clutching the stick with both hands,

I tap out the first rhythm in first speed.

Thaiya thai, thaiya thai.

Repeating the rhythm, my voice and my hands grow steady.

After class, I look for Uma,

who hid half her face behind her scarf

the entire time she danced.

She's disappeared.

DRIVE

Govinda's usually in akka's study waiting for me

well ahead of our class time.

But I rush in

eager to tell him

how my classes with the children are going,

only to find the room empty.

I look out the window.

See a figure running up the drive.

But it's not Govinda.

Govinda's never late.

Maybe he's caught in traffic.

Or—what if—

A sickening fear slithers in the pit of my stomach.

I pace the room for what feels like forever

but the clock tells me is only ten minutes.

Akka enters the study.

“Govinda's on the phone for you.”

“Govinda, I was so worried!

Thank goodness you're all right.

What happened? Where are you?”

“Veda, I'm really, really sorry.

I can't come today.

My parents arranged for a tutor to coach me at home.

He went on and on. We lost track of time.

I should have called sooner.”

Pretending I'm patient,

trying to be there for him like he always was for me,

I hold back the anger

that's swirling up inside me like a dancer's skirts.

“It's okay,” I say. “I understand.”

SEEING I

I catch Uma

as she tries to run out the door after class.

“Why do you always

hide your face?” I ask. “You should take off the scarf

and free up your neck.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Please,

don't be angry.

I love dance.”

“Then show us your face so we can see how much you love it.

Dancers don't hang their heads.”

Uma starts to turn her head away,

but I cup her chin

and her scarf slips a few inches lower.

Enough to unveil her cleft lip.

“I want to dance,” she says,

“but I'm not pretty enough to show my face.

Please let me keep my scarf.”

Tears shine like diamonds caught in her thick, long lashes.

“Uma, you're safe here. I'd never let anyone tease you.

I promise you'll feel graceful and beautiful

if you dance freely.”

But Uma ties her scarf

tight around her mouth.

Next class, Uma still hangs her head

and dances, face half-hidden,

looking as unsure of herself

as she did on the first day.

PRESENT

I'm walking toward akka's study

for class with Govinda

when akka meets me and hands me an envelope.

“Something small, a little early—

for your upcoming birthday.”

Stammering thanks, I drop the envelope, shocked.

I didn't know she knew my birthday.

She flicks her hand as though swatting away a mosquito.

“Consider it an assignment, Veda.

There's a dance recital I want you to attend

ahead of your birthday.

Whirling Sufi dervishes will perform.

And non-classical dancers of other faiths and traditions.

Watching them will teach you something, I hope.”

I slit the envelope to find three tickets.

Akka explains, “I thought Govinda might join you.

And I presume if you went out with a boy in the evening,

your parents would prefer if someone else came along.”

I can't wait to invite Govinda.

But I'm forced to.

Apologizing, Govinda rushes into the study.

Late.

Half an hour late.

I shove the tickets akka gave me

away in my bag.

STRONG
QUIET

Roshan, the only boy in class, surprises me

by entering stealthily,

his shoulders slumped,

his neck drooping almost as low as Uma's always does.

I crouch beside him and ask what's wrong.

He tells me, “My big brother said

strong boys do sports. Real boys don't dance.”

“He's wrong, Roshan. Strong boys are brave enough

to fight for what they want.

Strong boys care about Karma and what's right,

not following the crowd.

You tell that to anyone who says

you're weak because you like dance. Okay?”

My words seem to reach Roshan.

He rapidly bounces

back to his normal, cheerful self.