A Time to Dance

Home > Other > A Time to Dance > Page 2
A Time to Dance Page 2

by Padma Venkatraman


  one of thirty identical concrete high-rises built

  to house lower-middle-income families:

  teachers, accountants, librarians, bank tellers, clerks.

  Mrs. Subramaniam, who lives in the apartment below ours,

  calls out from her open door, “Careful!

  You don’t want to twist your ankle.”

  Shobana, her youngest daughter—

  who’s a little older than me—waves.

  I nod at them, too tired to move my tongue.

  When we were younger

  and Shobana’s now-married sisters lived at home,

  I’d see them at play in the street, running and shouting.

  Mrs. Subramaniam would come upstairs and say, “Veda, go out.

  Join their fun.”

  “Soon,” I’d promise.

  But I preferred to stay inside, dancing alone,

  tiptoeing, twirling,

  feeling as light as a jasmine’s white petal

  as my feet flitted across the floor

  and time slipped away . . .

  Too happy to stop

  until darkness fell

  and the street was empty.

  BADGE

  of

  HONOR

  Paati’s sitting cross-legged on the floor

  in front of our household altar.

  When she sees me, she stops chanting

  and puts her prayer books away.

  My head pounds

  like it’s the ground beneath a dancer’s feet,

  my shoulders hurt from holding my arms upright for hours,

  my thighs ache.

  Paati gets a bowl of pungent sesame oil.

  She brushes back the wet curls that cling to my forehead

  and massages the dark oil into my scalp.

  “I’ve got pain in muscles I didn’t know existed.”

  Paati knows I’m not complaining.

  Pain is part of the path to success.

  Pain is the passion

  of muscles burning to be best,

  the flame that rose within me

  when I conquered my vertical split,

  awaking a store of strength

  lying unseen beneath my brown skin.

  Pain is proof

  of my hard work,

  proof of my love for dance.

  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 an
ywhere.

  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.

  BACK WHEN

  Pa said,

  after our pilgrimage to the temple of the dancing God,

  I tried balancing one-legged—imitating Shiva’s pose—

  over and over until my bruised skin

  was as green as Goddess Meenakshi’s.

  So he took me to Uday anna.

  Uday anna drummed his hairy fingers on his desk,

  worrying I was too young.

  Pa said, “Test her.

  See how well

  she keeps time.”

  Intrigued, Uday anna sat cross-legged on the floor.

  Tapped out the simplest beat:

  thaiya thai, thaiya thai,

  one two, one two,

  right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.

  My feet followed his rhythm.

  He set more complex steps.

  My feet matched his tempo.

  To Pa, he whispered,

  “Yes.”

  As a child,

  the rhythmic syllables of Bharatanatyam beats

  spoke a magical language that let me

  slip back

  into the awe I first felt

  when I touched the celestial dancers’ carved feet

  on our pilgrimage to the temple of the dancing God.

  Maybe my dance lost depth

  as I gained height.

  Then

  as I danced

  the world grew big, wondrous, beautiful.

  Time melted.

  I disappeared.

  Now

  I twirl so fast

  the world vanishes.

  Only I exist.

  Then

  everywhere, in everything, I heard music.

  Music I could dance to.

  Now

  is the music I long for most

  the music of applause?

  SPEED

  Our van rampages down the potholed road

  like a runaway temple elephant.

  The driver presses the red rubber horn, trumpeting it nonstop,

  like every other insane driver in Chennai city

  always in a hurry.

  Usually it drives me crazy, the useless sound of horns,

  the unnecessary speed.

  Tonight, the roller-coaster ride provides the exhilaration I need

  to stop brooding.

  Strangers showered me with praise.

  Boys craved

  my attention.

  Who cares what Kamini says?

  I clutch the seat in front of me,

  pretend I’m a kid on the giant wheel at the Chennai city fair,

  pretend I’m flying

  every time the van hits a pothole and throws me into the air.

  The driver
/>
  swerves.

  Monstrous headlights from another vehicle

  glare at us.

  Brakes screech. Metal grinds against metal.

  My body careens sideways.

  I see the trunk of a pipul tree looming.

  A gray giant

  coming closer.

  Closer.

  “Shiva! Shiva!” someone screams.

  A man’s voice

  rasps out a swearword.

  “Stop! Brake!” Uday anna shouts.

  I hear Kamini’s terrified wail. “Aiyo! Aiyo!”

  Shattered shards of glass

  scatter moonlight.

  Pain

  sears through me

  as though elephants are spearing my skin with sharp tusks

  and trampling over my right leg.

  The seat in front, torn and twisted,

  pins my body down.

  Uday anna struggles to lift the crumpled wreckage

  of the mud-spattered seat.

  The drummer tries to wrench

  my trapped body free.

  Kamini stares

  down at me, shudders,

  turns away, retching.

  I smell

  vomit.

  “Don’t look,” Uday anna cries, laying a hand across my eyes.

  Through his fingers I see

  shredded skin, misshapen muscles. Mine.

  Feel sticky blood pooling

  below my right knee.

  Pain swings me away.

  The stench of burnt rubber.

  Flashing lights. The hysterical wail of an ambulance.

  Garbled voices.

  Cold. Mangled sounds made by masked figures.

  Darkness.

  WAKING

  Each breath is an effort.

  Every part of my body aches.

  The air stinks of ammonia.

  I push my heavy eyelids open.

  Above me

  patches of paint peel off the ceiling.

  Bandages scratch at my skin.

  An IV tube sticks into my left arm.

  I struggle to sit up.

  “Let me do that for you. Lie back.”

 

‹ Prev