A Time to Dance (21 page)

PLACES
of
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.

SKIRT

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 done—is still trying to do—a 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.

STRENGTH

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

—was 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.

RED DOT

That night, I crawl to Paati's trunk

and I take one of her saris back to bed with me.

Paati was soft—soft 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 need—for dance and me—both.

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.

HAUNTED

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 it—scares 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.

OFFERING THANKS

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.