A Time to Dance (12 page)

A REAL
SMILE

“Dhanam akka's the one,” I tell Paati

as I enter our apartment.

Breathing heavily, she heaves herself up

off the floor in front the household altar and says,

“Your teacher is lucky, Veda.

She's found a student who'll create a new world through dance

just as Shiva creates new universes through His steps.

A world where others with special limbs

will learn to enjoy their beauty.”

First thing Pa asks after he and Ma come home,

“How was the new dance school, Veda?”

No surprise there.

What surprises me is how Ma reacts to my answer.

She smiles a real smile.

SEEING BEAUTIFUL

In Jim's office,

I see a chair covered with a white sheet.

“Ta-da!” he cries as he whips it off,

revealing a nearly lifelike limb.

“Is your new limb to your liking, ma'am?”

My skin tone matches the limb's hue.

I stroke it. Something soft as flesh

fills the space between the metal skeleton and rubber skin.

I lift the limb.

It's lighter than my trial limb.

I try it on.

When they're side by side and compared closely,

my feet do look different. But no audience

could tell them apart if they saw me from a distance—onstage.

I press down on the toe.

When I ease off, I feel a springiness to the foot,

a push, giving me a faint pulse of energy back.

Almost a response.

“I love it!”

Jim grins. “Amazing, huh? That foot's durable, too.

Should last a couple of years. Won't wear out too quickly.”

“Wear out?”

“Don't look so worried, kiddo.

The project will provide replacements.

Your foot will wear out

the way your shoes wear out.

No foot lasts a lifetime.”

Except the ones we're born with.

Usually.

“Anything I can't do with this leg?”

I want him to say one word:

No.

Jim launches into a list.

“. . . can't wear high heels . . .

. . . can tiptoe
only
if knees are bent . . .

. . . can't flex and point the foot . . .

but you'll be able to dance Bharatanatyam.

A below-knee amputee

with faith in herself

is two-legged, not one-legged,

as far as I'm concerned.

“Now, ma'am, would you try out a few dance poses, please?

I want to make sure the fit's perfect.”

Assuming the basic half-sitting pose

—feet splayed, knees out to the sides,

legs bent like the edges of a diamond—

I move my feet one at a time, slowly,

then at second speed,

then speeding up to third and fastest speed.

“Beautiful,” Jim says.

My heart races.

The naked admiration in his voice

makes me feel grown up.

But then Jim

squats and taps

my unfeeling limb.

“Beautiful,” he repeats. “Beautiful engineering,

beautiful design,

if I do say so myself.”

BOULDER

Twice the age and size

of every other beginner in Govinda's classroom,

I feel as out of place as a boulder

brought down by the Ganga glacier

from the heights of the Himalayas

and abandoned on the river plain.

By the back wall of the sun-drenched classroom,

I skulk.

But I can't hide how I tower

over the rest of my classmates.

A little girl looks up at me. “You're so big!

Why're you in this class?”

While I wonder how to react,

Govinda states matter-of-factly

that I lost a leg in an accident,

that I have a new one I'm learning to dance with.

“But we're not here to chatter, children.

We're here to learn Bharatanatyam. Right?” he says.

“Right!” Their attention shifts back to him.

“We begin every dance session with a prayer,” Govinda says.

Uday anna's class never began or ended with prayers.

“Aangikam bhuvanam yasya; Vaachikam sarvavaangmayam;

Aahaaryam Chandrathaaraadhi;
Tham Namah Saathvikam Shivam.”

He who resides within every being in the universe;

who speaks the universal language;

whose ornaments are heavenly spheres;

Him we worship,

Shiva, the serene one.

Next, Govinda demonstrates

the dancer's apology to Mother Earth.

With ease,

the rest of the class imitates his movements.

Palms on the wall for support,

I manage to follow them,

my pose imperfect, but not too noticeably different.

We begin the first exercise, hands on hips,

knees bent, feet to the sides,

raising each foot off the ground and bringing it down,

thaiya thai, thaiya thai.

Govinda's voice fills the room.

“Empty yourselves of everything

except good thoughts.”

My eyes fix themselves

on the feet rising and stamping the earth so effortlessly.

It's hard not to grudge the ease with which the others move.

I'm not sure I can empty myself of wishing

for those able bodies I don't own.

TOUCH
LOST

Pa, Ma, Paati, Chandra, all ask,

“How does the new leg

feel?”

I don't point out

their question misses a point:

Even this new leg

doesn't

feel.

I won't ever feel

five of my toes,

my ankle,

my instep,

my heel.

My right foot will never tell me if the floor is

wet/dry,

hot/cold,

flat/sloping,

rough/smooth,

bumpy/slippery.

My right leg has

lost touch with the world.

But when they ask,

I say,

“Amazing,”

because it feels amazingly better than the old trial limb

and because I know

that's the answer

they need to hear.

ONLY
Three
TALENTS

Tired of holding the wall

when I perform the apology to the Earth Goddess,

I try it without support

although a tremor crawls up my spine

at the thought of falling in front of the children.

My feet and knees to the sides, I lower my torso,

my back erect.

I feel the weight on my left side rolling onto the ball of my foot,

feel my left heel lift off the ground.

But I can't sense what my right foot is doing.

Unbalanced,

I tumble out of position.

My bottom bumps on the ground.

A giggle erupts and spreads.

The entire earth seems to shake with scorn.

I am a fallen piece of rubble.

“Silence.” Govinda's eyes

leap like angry flames.

Every trace of laughter dies.

Govinda instructs the class to continue,

walks over to face me and assumes the pose himself:

knees bent all the way to the sides,

resting his torso on his heels, legs folded in half beneath him,

balancing on tiptoe, back perfectly straight.

He's so close I catch the faint coconut scent of his hair.

“Veda, our ancient scriptures say

the best dancers must have ten talents:

balance,

agility,

steadiness,

grace,

intelligence,

dedication,

hard work,

the ability to sing well,

to speak well,

and to see deeply and expressively.

You've only lost the first three talents.

Only for a while.”

The three I need most.

What use are the rest?

“Soon you'll regain all ten talents.”

Govinda waits.

In the depths of his eyes I see no pity.

Only patience and trust.

His hands stretch on either side of my waist

between the edge of my blouse and the top of my skirt

near enough to hold me from another fall

but not touching.

He thinks I can do it on my own.

“Only three have you lost.

Only temporarily.

You have all seven other talents.”

He repeats those words

as though they're an incantation.

Listening to his resonant voice,

I rise to my mismatched feet.

TWO MEN

Our exam results arrive.

Chandra tops the list.

Paati and my parents sign a card for her and

Chandra and I go to her favorite café—Java Joy—to celebrate.

“Your family must be thrilled,” I tell her. “My ma's backed off

since the accident,

but deep down

she probably still wishes I could be an engineer.

She'd exchange you

for me

any day.”

Chandra stabs a piece of cake. “Your family gives me

so much attention.

Mine hardly notices my achievements.

Everything I do, one of my sisters did already.

Plus, you know that boy my sister was seeing in secret?

His parents found out about them.

They were angry because they're wealthier and a different caste.

So he dumped her.

She's miserable, poor thing.

She was so upset she even told my parents about him

after they broke up.

So my parents are in a tizzy trying to set her up

with a suitable boy now. No time for me.”

To steer Chandra's thoughts away from her family,

I ask if she's decided what she wants to do in college yet,

though college is still years and many exams away.

“I'm going to become a biomedical engineer,”

she says, starting to cheer up. “Someday

I'll make a leg that'll listen to your brain

so you can do every Bharatanatyam pose you can think of.”

I'm glad my accident at least helped

Chandra figure out her career path.

Chandra spears another piece of cake.

“Speaking of dance poses, how's it going with dancer boy?

He sounds interest-ing. And interest-ed.”

No boy is going to find me

attractive.

Least of all someone as gorgeous as Govinda.

“He's helping you out
a lot
,” Chandra says.

I shrug. “He's helping me out. Yes. Not asking me out.”

“Do you like him better than Jim?” Chandra asks.

I roll my eyes. “I don't
like
either of them that way.”

But her question makes me uncomfortable.

In my mind, I see Jim and Govinda side by side.

Govinda standing tall like the dancer he is,

beautiful, serious, and as deeply in love with dance as I am;

Jim with his hands in his pockets, a teasing look in his eyes,

a cheerful glow lighting his face.

Jim, who's traveled the world and still finds me special.

Chandra sings, “Veda's in love with two men.

Who's she going to pick?

Veda's in love with two men. With whom will she stick?”

I ball up a tissue and toss it at her face.