A Time to Dance (3 page)

GIVING

I love seeing happy creases form around Paati's eyes

when she watches me dance.

She leans forward, her wicker chair creaks,

her body sways,

attentive as a snake

following the motion of a snake charmer's pipe.

Though I'm still tired, I say,

“Want to see what I practiced today?”

Before Ma and Pa return, I want to give back to Paati

the story she told me as a child,

the story I'll perform at the competition:

of how Shiva once competed at dance with His wife.

I try to make my dance appear effortless

though it isn't,

the way Paati makes everything she does for me look effortless:

cooking my favorite dishes,

helping me with homework,

combing knots out of my long curly hair,

massaging my muscles until her touch chases my aches away.

THE MUSIC
of
APPLAUSE

My trembling fingers pin the free end of my dance sari

over the left shoulder of my blouse.

One last time I stretch each leg out, flex and point my bare feet,

wiggle my toes to ease tense muscles.

Every seat in the auditorium is filled.

The air twangs with expectation like a veena's taut string.

Last of twelve competitors,

I'm hiding behind the wings, waiting.

I watch Kamini finish up her routine.

She twirls in a tight circle and comes to a stop,

bare feet to the sides, knees bent outward,

holding a diamond-shaped space between her legs.

As Kamini walks offstage,

Uday anna's mouth shapes the harsh words

“Not fast enough,”

though she looked flawless to me.

Kamini's lips quiver, but I have no time to worry about her.

I'm next.

The velvet curtain,

crimson as the thick lines of
alta
painted on my feet,

shudders apart.

Hands at my waist, I march out

keeping perfect time to the crisp, clear commands

of Uday anna's cymbals.

The rows of brass bells on my anklets

vibrate to the rhythm of the
mridangam
drummer.

My skin tingles as I step into the music,

give in to the icy thrill of pleasure

that spreads through me whenever I dance,

the pleasure of leaping into a cool lake on a sweltering day.

The music swells and strengthens like a flood.

Waves of song pulse through my body.

I love portraying Shiva,

who, through the steps of His eternal dance,

creates and destroys universes.

I whirl across the stage,

stop to balance on one leg,

holding the other behind me with both arms,

my body bent outward, bow-shaped.

A burst of applause encourages me.

Steps quickening, I build to the climax.

A rope of anxiety and excitement twists in my stomach

as I assume the most daring pose in my routine:

my vertical split.

What if I don't “pull it off”?

I must. I will.

I hold my pose.

Frenzied clapping breaks out,

applause so sweet and strong I can taste it,

sweet and strong as South Indian coffee.

A fresh bolt of energy shoots through my veins

as I hear the music of a crowd

clapping just for me.

DANCING
My Body
BEAUTIFUL

A judge's voice echoes over the microphone.

“This year's winner

impressed us with her flawless technique.

She brought alive poses rarely performed.

In honor of her speed and skillful mastery over her body,

we present this year's prize to

Ms. Veda Venkat.”

Uday anna beams. “Ten years I've waited for this honor. I knew you'd win.”

So dizzy with joy I feel almost off-balance,

I return to the stage,

where three judges line up to congratulate me.

One of them hands me a small bronze image of Shiva dancing,

a replica of the deity I first saw as a child

in the temple of the dancing God.

Clutching Shiva to my chest,

I thank the judges.

Strangers crowd around me as I exit the stage.

A tall, skinny boy elbows through the crowd,

extends a hand toward mine, looking hopeful.

Behind him, two more boys gaze awestruck

in my direction.

I whip around, expecting to see

my best friend, Chandra, nearby,

whose dimpled chin and sparkling talk

inspire a love-struck longing

in nearly every boy we encounter.

Surely, these looks are meant for her.

No one stares at me

this way.

I don't see Chandra anywhere.

I once read an article about beauty in a magazine.

I measured my nose to see if it was long enough,

if my eyes were large enough,

if my lips were thick enough

to be beautiful.

They weren't.

One of the boys stutters, “Ms. Veda, you-you're

—awesome.”

Behind him, another boy echoes, “Awesome.”

I fight to keep my lips from breaking into a silly grin.

The eager pressure with which the boys grasp my hand

tells me

my graceful movements make up for

my incorrectly proportioned face.

I can dance beauty into my body.

JOYS
of
WINNING

My best friend, Chandra, pushes through the crowd,

slaps my back as though our team just won a cricket match.

She pulls my hand up into the air.

I let it linger there.

We were about eight years old

and I was standing at the edge of the cricket field

when Chandra's bat lofted the red cork ball

in my direction.

Eyes scrunched up against the glaring sun, I raced after it.

Felt the ball's leathery hide in my palm.

Raising an index finger, I signaled she was out.

Chandra ran over. I was scared she was angry.

“Great catch, Veda.” She pumped my hand.

I couldn't believe Chandra—

good at everything yet also popular—

knew my name.

Chandra slid an arm across my shoulders.

“From now on,” she said, “you're on my team.”

Playing cricket with Chandra,

the sun baking my black curls

until they feel as hot

as a piece of fire-toasted chappati bread,

I like the sweet swish of the ball landing in my hands,

the crack of my bat sending the ball high into the sky.

But neither sound fills me the way dance does.

Winning at cricket doesn't compare

with the joy of winning at dance.

A joy that makes my heart beat

to a brisk, victorious tempo:

tha ka tha ki ta

tha ka tha ki ta.

A joy that makes

rhythmic music swirl in my ears.

BLACK DOT

The crowd parts to let Pa through.

He throws his arms around me.

Says, “Splendid, simply splendid.”

Ma says, “Congratulations.”

For a brief moment I hope for more, but that stiff word

is all

she gives me.

Paati presses her wrinkled cheek next to mine. Whispers,

“You'll have other chances to win over your ma.”

Ma forces a smile. I return it.

Paati's right. Already, Ma's at least trying.

And my career's only begun.

Ma's tight face is like the small black dot

dancers paint on their left cheeks to ward off the evil eye:

enough only to blemish my joy for a second,

too tiny to take away from the thrilling certainty

of a future filled with success.

LOST

After waving Chandra and my family good-bye,

I return to bask in Uday anna's praise,

speak to the judges, and answer reporters' questions.

I pose for photographs

until my eyes hurt from the sea of flashing cameras.

Hours later, changed out of my dance clothes,

I climb into the van that's waiting to take

dancers, teachers, and musicians

home.

As I settle into a seat behind the driver,

Kamini climbs in.

She walks past me without a word of congratulations,

cozies up with our lanky drummer a few seats back.

Her voice floats into my ears,

“. . . Veda's dance . . . technically okay but emotionally flat

and spiritually lacking,

don't you think?”

Kamini—of all people—talking about spirituality!

Nearly every day when we were children

she'd whine and pester Uday anna:

“How long must we only move our feet?

When can we wear jewelry?

When can we wear silk dance dresses?”

But maybe I

have

been dancing differently

since I first started performing onstage.

Have I lost

the kind of joy

I felt dancing as a child?

The van lurches forward.

My thoughts race back.