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.”
A Time to Dance Page 2