A Time to Dance (21 page)
Authors: Padma Venkatraman
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PRAYER
I open Paati's prayer books,
dust off her brass bell,
light a stick of incense,
and sit cross-legged
on the ground in front of our household altar
although it's hard to do with my prosthesis.
I pray I'll find a way
to help Uma
find happiness and confidence through dance.
And I pray I'll find my way
through my tangled mess of feelings for Govinda.
Not a flicker of light penetrates through my confusion.
But if nothing else,
if Paati's soul hasn't been reincarnated in another body,
if she's out there somewhere watching me,
she'd be happy seeing me fill our house with prayer.
Wherever she is now,
maybe my voice can reach her.
Pa joins me on the floor in front of the altar.
He thanks me
for keeping Paati's traditions alive in our home.
He says he's glad she planted her faith inside me.
Ironing the hem of my school skirt,
I tell Chandra about the three tickets
akka gave me for the concert.
“You'll come, won't you?”
“So I can hold one of your hands while Govinda holds the other?”
Suppressed laughter leaps in Chandra's eyes.
The iron hisses. “I'm not sure he likes me that way, Chandra.
He's always busy. Studying.
Maybe I mistook Govinda's feelings for me
like I misread Jim's.
Imagining there's something between us
though all Govinda sees in me is a friend.”
“Studying for college entrance tests is tough, Veda.
What d'you think I'm doing when you're off dancing?
Working as hard as I can to make good grades.”
“You still make time for me.
Govinda cancels classes. Or comes late.”
“He's probably just having trouble
fitting things into his new schedule.
I've given up cricket so I can study every spare minute.
Govinda could have given up your classes together,
but he's trying to manage everything, isn't he?
Studying for college, teaching you,
and keeping up with his own dance lessons.”
The skirt has a stubborn crease.
I press it out with my steaming iron.
Chandra's right.
Govinda has doneâis still trying to doâa lot for me.
Chandra folds my shirt, puts it away.
“Are you having fun teaching?” she asks.
I tell her about Uma.
“I'm sure her parents are too poor to pay for an operation.
She loves dance, but doesn't do it right
because she's trying so hard to hide her mouth.
I wish I could get her to feel
safe enough in class to not worry.
But I don't know how to help her. I'm a useless teacher.”
Chandra marches to my dresser. Rummages through.
Yanks out the short blue batik skirt I bought
last time we went shopping together.
When I had two real legs.
She fingers the price tag. “Brand-new.
You've never worn this skirt?”
My iron splutters. I turn it off.
“What does that skirt have to do with anything?”
“You're always covering up your leg
but you want to teach Uma she's not ugly?”
Chandra throws the skirt at me.
The silky fabric is rumpled
from being squashed in the back of a drawer.
I smooth out the wrinkles,
spread the skirt flat on my ironing table.
Turn my iron back on.
Govinda arrives
only a little late.
Apologizing as usual.
“I hate studying,” he adds, quietly.
“I miss being with you like we used to.
Wish I could study less and dance more.”
He misses being with me!
“Govinda, akka gave me tickets. To a dance recital.
Can you come?”
Without even checking his calendar, he shakes his head.
“I'm so sorry, Veda. I wish I could.
My parents wouldn't understand
if I took an entire evening off for a dance concert.
Not right now.”
After those magical moments we shared by the lotus pond,
both hearing the same music in our minds;
after dancing so close together at Radhika's party
âwas I wrong to feel our friendship
was deepening into more?
“Veda, I'm so behind on mathematics.
I have so much to catch up on.
I love dance. But it isn't my life.”
Govinda sounds like he's reading a speech
written by someone else,
trying to convince himself it's true,
and failing.
“What is your life, Govinda?
Whatever your parents tell you it should be?”
“Veda, please. Try to understand,” he pleads,
“I like you. A lot. But I'm not like you.”
Didn't I want Govinda to say he liked me?
Shouldn't I be happy?
But the moment feels all wrong.
I want him to repeat it,
say it strongly.
Wanting him to reassure me
that he likes me enough
he'll never give up our time together,
I say, “I can work on my own, Govinda.
So you'll have more time to study.”
But my words
don't work the way I want.
Govinda nods. Says softly, “It's probably good
for you to work on your own for a while.
We'll still find ways to meet.
I promise.”
I shrug
as though
I don't care
if we see each other again.
Because I feel
like a heap of discarded clothing.
That night, I crawl to Paati's trunk
and I take one of her saris back to bed with me.
Paati was softâsoft as her sari.
Yet also strong.
Govinda's softness I love,
but his caving in to his parents I don't even like.
His need to please them seems stronger
than his needâfor dance and meâboth.
Unable to sleep, I twist and untwist the fabric.
My phantom comes alive.
Beneath my right knee,
nails scratch at invisible skin.
I bite down. Sweat beads on my lips.
I bolt upright and grip my residual limb.
This is all I have.
My pain is an illusion.
I will not give in.
A beam of moonlight gleams through the bronze circle of flame
in which my Shiva dances.
Shiva, I pray,
open my third eye.
Help me sense the truth
and drive away this unreal pain.
Open my third eye.
Show me your light.
And let me see
Govinda's feelings for me
and mine for him
clearly.
I press on the spot between my brows.
Desperate.
My forehead wet with sweat.
Concentrate.
Reality is the pressure between my eyebrows.
Next morning, I see a red dot
bored into the skin at the center of my forehead
by my fingernail.
Chandra knows right away something's wrong
when we meet for lunch at school.
“What's the matter, Veda? Someone say something?
Need me to punch the terrible twins?”
“Govinda said he liked me
but I messed it all up, Chandra.
Acted like I didn't care
if we never met again.”
“So call him and apologize.
It's as easy as that,” Chandra says.
“But itâscares me
how Govinda gives in to his parents.
What if Govinda and I get together
and his parents don't like me?
Will
he give me up, too,
like that rich boy who dumped your sister?”
“Not every rich boy is an invertebrate like my sister's ex.
And look at your ma. She married your pa
though her family said no.”
“My ma admitted she still misses her family.
It takes a lot of strength to do what she did.”
My voice shakes. “Chandra, I don't know what to do.
I miss him. I'm so confused.”
“You'll work it out,” Chandra says.
I'm not sure if she means
Govinda and I will work things out together
or if she means
I'll work him out of my system.
I'm practicing on my own at home
trying not to think how much I miss Govinda,
when our doorbell rings.
I'm surprised to find our neighbors
Mrs. Subramaniam and her daughter
standing on the landing.
“We have something for you,” Shobana says.
“For me?”
All these years the Subramaniams lived below us,
I never once thought of getting anything
for them.
“After your accident, we prayed for your recovery,”
Mrs. Subramaniam says.
“We saw you onstage again,
at the performance about Buddha's life.
So we went to the temple and offered thanks.”
Shobana gives me a package of blessed food
and a packet of vermillion powder.
“Here is some
prasadam
from the temple.
And some
kumkumam.
”
“Thank you.”
How do I apologize
for being so involved with my own dance
that I never found time to talk with them?
Shobana waves her hand at me
as though waving away my thanks.
She and her mother disappear down the stairs.
Guilt makes
the packets they gave me
feel heavier than rocks.