A Time to Dance (15 page)

FEAR
of
FALLING

When I see Govinda, he says, “Sorry we fought.

I agree you need to try and master

whatever your leg doesn't prevent you from doing.

But I hope someday you'll learn to move

the mind and heart, not just your body.”

We pick up where we left off:

try to balance in the full-sit,

try to lunge without stumbling.

On the ground after my thirteenth fall of the day,

I pummel the carpet in frustration.

“You look like my kid sister

throwing a temper tantrum,” Govinda says.

Being Govinda's kid sister is almost as bad

as being Jim's “kiddo.”

“Veda? We're going to play a game.”

Now Govinda's acting as if I am his kid sister.

“I'm

not

a

kid.”

Or his sister, but I don't add that.

“I'm

your

teacher.” Govinda mimics my voice.

“Listen to me for once.”

He walks to a far corner of the study,

sits in the chair by the writing desk,

stretches his long legs out, and says, “Stand on my feet.”

“Stand on your feet?”

“Place your feet sideways over mine, Veda.

Toes on the floor. Knees bent in the half-sitting pose.”

“Why?”

“Please?”

I position myself the way he wants,

my toes touching the earth,

my feet crisscrossing over his,

my knees bent out to the sides.

He stretches out his hands and tells me to lay my palms on his.

We're touching.

The entire length of both my palms

on both of his.

Music fills my ears—fast, high-pitched,

like the buzz of a bee.

We're closer than I've been to any other boy my age.

And Govinda looks gorgeous,

loves dance,

and is an amazing, generous teacher.

He lifts

his legs,

his feet,

and me

into the air.

I shriek like a delighted child.

Govinda recites the words of a child's game:

“Mamarathilla yerade, mangaye parikade.”

Don't climb the mango tree, don't pluck the mango fruit.

I played this game with Pa, when I was little,

my tiny feet planted entirely on his,

his legs lifting me as high as they could,

bouncing me up and down.

I'd feel like I was flying.

Govinda isn't lifting me nearly as high as Pa did,

isn't keeping me in the air as long,

but I'm older and heavier.

He must be so strong

to bear my weight.

“Want you to enjoy

feeling your body move,” Govinda says,

“thought it might help your sense of balance, too.”

“Again?” I feel my face flush

with childish excitement.

Govinda grins. “I thought you weren't a kid?”

I push my lips into an exaggerated pout.

We laugh and he lifts me once more.

His muscles tighten with strain.

I shift from side to side,

stretch,

rock,

reorient my body to my new sense of balance.

Give in to the thrill of almost-falling,

secure in the shelter of Govinda's arms.

DEMONS

I stand up after falling from my lunge—

and say, “Again.”

Govinda shakes his head. “You dance like a demon, Veda.”

Is he starting another fight?

But he says, earnestly, “It's a compliment.”

“If that's a compliment,” I say,

“I'd hate to hear your insults.”

“Your strength, and only your strength,”

Govinda clarifies, looking worried,

“reminds me of the demon

whom Shiva fought,

the demon whose strength doubled

whenever he fell to the ground.”

“You have to work a lot harder

on your compliments.”

“You inspire me to work harder,” he says,

“on a lot of things.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as my life. What I want to accomplish,”

Govinda explains. “My parents are engineers.

They want me to take over their engineering firm.

They don't understand

how much I love teaching dance.

How little I care about making money.”

“My ma was that way,” I say. “Focused on me being an engineer.

Until my accident, we fought a lot.

Don't know how it would have gone

if I hadn't lost my leg.”

“I know how it would have gone.

You'd have forced your ma to come around.

You have no trouble fighting for what you love.

I'm not a fighter like you are, Veda,

but I'm hoping some of your spirit will rub off on me.”

So Govinda does admire me.

Thath thai thaam, dith thai thaam.

I kick, sink down into full-
mandi
, lunge,

and leap up.

And land in the standing position.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Govinda punches the air.

I stand with both feet flat and sure on the floor,

prepared to try some more,

but Govinda says, “Maybe we should end with that today?

You know we've started working

on a dance drama about the Buddha's life

and I'm playing the lead?

Akka wanted to start rehearsing earlier today.”

“Can I come watch?” I ask.

“I don't dare say no to my demon.” Govinda's tone is affectionate.

And half teasing.

His demon?

This is the first time Govinda's ever called me “his.”

My heart skips.

But maybe I'm making too much out of what Govinda said.

Maybe a nickname means

no more to Govinda than it did to Jim.

A NEW CENTER

Govinda and I walk

toward the open-air stage beneath the banyan tree

where the cast is assembled.

Dhanam akka arrives.

She says a small problem has come up.

There's a role vacant in the play.

A student—Renuka—is moving away.

“Tough role,” someone comments.

“Wasn't Renuka playing the old, sick woman Buddha sees

who's onstage for three whole minutes?”

Laughter ripples through the rest of the cast.

I say, “Please may I have that part?”

Everyone's gaze shifts to me.

On Govinda's face, I catch a look of admiration.

I say, “If I keel over, it'll only add a touch of realism.”

“You may have that part, Veda.

And the part of Gautami,” Dhanam akka adds.

Govinda looks puzzled. “Gautami?”

“We'll add a short scene to the play,”

akka says. “The story of Gautami.

Veda will play her role as well.”

A little girl runs up to us.

“This is my kid sister, Leela,” Govinda says.

“I'm not a kid,” Leela says,

hands on hips. “I'm eight and a half.”

“Namaskaram,” I say, as seriously as I'd greet any adult.

“It's very nice to meet you, Leela.”

The entire cast surrounds us.

A pretty girl who looks my age, though a lot shorter,

with dimpled cheeks and large eyes,

extends her hand in friendship.

“I'm Radhika,” she says. “Govinda's neighbor.”

After years of being envied at my old dance class,

after weeks of being whispered about at my school,

I'm encircled

by welcoming smiles.

JUST AS WARM

When I tell them I'll be onstage soon

(although with many others, playing just two tiny roles),

Chandra whoops,

Paati wraps me in her plush arms,

Pa lifts me a foot off the ground,

and

Ma

gives me a hug.

Not nearly as soft as Paati's

but just as warm.

NOT EVEN
an
OLD WOMAN

My first part in the play should be easy.

All I have to do is hobble onstage with a cane.

But I don't even play an old woman well enough

to please Dhanam akka.

“Buddha was born a prince,” she says. “It was prophesied

He could rule the whole world.

Yet when He saw your plight,

He gave up His entire kingdom,

His wealth, His power,

His family.

You made Him yearn to seek a way

to end all human suffering.

Your role in the play represents the pain of all humanity.

The sight of you—poverty-stricken,

overcome by age and illness—

turned Buddha from a mere man

into a reincarnation of God.”

According to Paati's story there were

four sights that moved Buddha:

one old person, one afflicted with illness, a corpse,

a monk whose face glowed peace.

But I don't correct akka.

My second role is even harder.

In my second role, I am Gautami,

a woman who came to the Buddha

with her dead son in her arms,

begging Him to bring her son back to life.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Buddha asked her

to bring Him a mustard seed from the home

of a family that had never suffered.

Gautami left her son's body at His feet

and went from house to house,

searching for a family that had not known pain.

No family could give her a mustard seed

because every family had seen sorrow.

Instead, they gave her comfort and shared tales of loss.

Speaking and listening to stranger after suffering stranger,

Gautami saw that death came to everyone

and she accepted the tragedy that had struck her life.

Returning to where her son's body rested,

she felt embraced by the compassion in His eyes.

Knowing that her son's soul lived on,

Gautami cremated her son's body.

To play Gautami's role, I must show

not only pain but also acceptance and peace.

After rehearsal,

Radhika, who plays the Buddha's kind stepmother,

pulls me aside.

“Akka's hard on all of us

during rehearsals.

Once, she yelled at me ten minutes straight,” she says.

Radhika is sweet to try comforting me.

But though I sincerely thank her,

I still feel frustrated at myself

as I trudge down the drive.

Govinda catches up with me.

“Veda, are you all right?”

“I don't know what akka wants of me.

I can't tell what I'm doing wrong.”

“Akka thinks of dance as a way to help our souls progress

through our many incarnations.

She wants us to use dance to engage

with our deepest emotions,

not to escape ourselves and the world.

She says we can learn

about Karma and acting rightly in this life

through the characters we become in a dance-drama.”

Govinda's feet keep pace with my mismatched pair

all the way to the bus stop.

More than his words, I'm comforted by the sight

of his feet, waiting alongside mine,

until my bus arrives.