A Time to Dance

by Padma Venkatraman

  I truly became a brave and strong teacher.

  Maybe when you feel angry,

  you should try pretending you’re onstage,

  let anger fuel you into acting a part from a dance-story,

  a part that could help you.”

  I leave my lonely slipper

  next to Paati’s pair

  and follow her.

  Inside the temple, the scent of sacred camphor

  mixes with the acrid smell of bat droppings.

  My eyes flit to the dark corners of the cavernous ceiling,

  where bats hang upside down.

  There are no dancers

  on this temple’s walls.

  Here, even Shiva

  stands still.

  Paati surrenders herself to prayer, neck bent, eyes closed.

  Sensing Paati’s conviction He exists,

  I feel some comfort.

  But I wish I could find a way

  to worship that would fulfill me,

  as Paati’s firm faith in prayer seems to fill and strengthen her.

  For a moment, my childhood memory of the deity

  in the temple of the dancing God

  blazes so fiercely I feel the heat of the flames

  He holds in one of His four arms.

  I miss

  the blissful ecstasy of the dancing Shiva

  I saw.

  Whose music I heard

  as a child.

  ACTING ANGER

  At the bus stop, I hold my head high.

  I’m not a bride of long ago

  being forced into marriage with someone she doesn’t know.

  I’m not a widow of long ago

  whose world is circumscribed to a circle at her feet.

  I’m the granddaughter of a woman

  who was brave.

  Who used her anger.

  Who told me to treat the world as my stage.

  I hold myself as straight as I can on crutches.

  Pretend I’m the legendary Queen Kaikeyi,

  whose strength in battle impressed King Dasharatha

  so much

  he begged for her hand in marriage.

  I stare down the first nosy stranger

  who questions me.

  He’s a lowly subject

  of the kingdom I rule.

  The bus

  is my royal chariot.

  I return every curious glance

  with my imperial glare.

  No one dares pester me.

  On my way out of the bus,

  I poke through the crowd with my crutches.

  The old woman who sits up front jerks her chin at me.

  “You there. Girl.

  When are you going to tell us how you lost your leg?”

  My regal stance must not scare everybody.

  I bare my teeth in a too-wide grin.

  “Crocodile bit it off.”

  My sarcasm is lost on her.

  She bends toward me.

  “How exactly did that happen?”

  “Like this.” I thrust my face next to hers, open my mouth

  and snap it shut. Crocodiles don’t growl, but I roar, “Grrrr.”

  The woman shrieks and

  a ripple of laughter spreads

  as I stride down my royal staircase.

  Maybe I was mean. But if it’s won me peace, it’s worth it.

  Paati’s right. It’s all a matter of how you deal with things.

  And Chandra’s right.

  I’m strong. Even if my body is weaker.

  My crutches tap out a victory march.

  I strut,

  tired but triumphant, toward school.

  FIRST STEPS

  “Is this my leg?”

  A foot stuck on a metal pipe

  all-too-visible through the transparent plastic “leg”

  that doesn’t match

  the curve or the skin tone of my real leg.

  “A trial limb. The clear plastic lets me check the fit.

  You can practice with this

  until the more modern one is ready.”

  Jim shows me a “silicone sleeve” that looks like a sock made of gel.

  The sleeve fits over my residual limb.

  A pin at the bottom of the sleeve

  clicks to reassure me the leg is on properly

  and clicks again when I take it off.

  Jim’s added soft straps above my knee for extra security.

  “Ready to take the first step

  toward your shining future?” Jim says.

  Feeling as nervous as if I’m about to go onstage

  for another dance competition,

  I rise.

  My body weight isn’t even.

  I’m leaning on my strong left side, stunned by the effort it takes

  to raise my fake leg slightly off the floor.

  How much strength did I lose

  when they sawed off the muscles I once had?

  My fake foot is cold, hard, senseless.

  I glance down to see if it’s correctly stationed.

  I take another wavering step.

  My brain can command my artificial leg, but plastic can’t reply

  like muscles and nerves can.

  Hunched over, watching my hesitant feet

  I shuffle like the beggar Paati and I met

  on the way to the temple.

  “Trust your sense of touch,” Jim says.

  “Walk like the dancer you are.”

  Circling around the room with him a second time,

  I straighten up—back and neck erect.

  It gets easier. My third round already

  earns me Jim’s usual compliment. “Great job!”

  I wish I could vent my joy

  by leaping.

  “Start slow, kiddo. Wear this limb a few hours at first.

  Build up slowly to an entire day.

  Tell me what this limb does and doesn’t let you do

  so I can modify the design we have in mind. Okay?”

  I suck in my cheeks to keep from sighing with impatience.

  The next time we retrace our route, Jim says,

  “Back home, my patients can hold a guard rail.

  Here, though, I’m all the guard you’ve got.”

  I look at my hand tucked snugly in the crook of his elbow.

  Sense the blond hair of his arm brushing against my skin.

  Indian men don’t invite ladies to hold on to their arms.

  Feeling like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel

  being courted by a British gentleman,

  I giggle.

  But my giddiness at being so near him

  gives way to a spurt of anxiety when Jim says,

  “Can you walk alone?

  I need to see how your limb fits.”

  He lets go of my arm. “Trust my leg, kiddo.

  Your leg, I mean.”

  “Our leg?” I suggest, surprising myself with my boldness.

  Jim’s eyes twinkle like the sea on a summer’s day.

  “As you wish, ma’am. Our leg.”

  His grin sends warmth rushing up my cheeks.

  I move slow and unsteady around the room,

  feeling the intensity

  of his gaze

  as it travels over every bit of exposed flesh.

  Observes

  my every movement.

  Jim looks

  preoccupied. Assessing.

  I want him to look

  admiringly. Appreciatively.

  I want him to look at me

  the way young men looked at me

  that evening after my danc
e competition.

  STUDYING

  GRACE

  “I’m going to study,” I announce every evening.

  Ma thinks I mean for my upcoming finals.

  In my bedroom I study my reflection.

  Attention focused on my feet.

  After a million miles

  a trillion minutes

  walked with no thought at all,

  I slow the motion down in my mind:

  flex thigh, bend knee, lift ankle, straighten knee,

  heel down, then the ball of my foot.

  Bring my right foot down light enough

  so it doesn’t thud on the floor.

  Lift high so it doesn’t scrape or drag.

  Match my left foot’s pace precisely.

  I must learn to walk gracefully first,

  if I’m ever going to dance again.

  BLUE

  DIAMONDS

  My fake leg well hidden under loose salwar trousers,

  I walk to Chandra’s housing development, three roads over.

  Her ma wipes her moist eyes with the edge of her sari

  when she sees me, saying,

  “Can’t believe you walked here. On your very own.”

  Chandra rushes over, followed by her pa and two older sisters.

  The five of us chatter for a while,

  just as we used to.

  Her grandmother ambles over,

  grumbles to me about her ailments.

  I’m relieved

  none of them treats me differently.

  Chandra whisks me away for a private chat.

  We sit on the back steps,

  eating the spicy mixture of chickpeas, chili, and coconut

  her mother cooked for us.

  “Jim’s so different from anyone we know,” I tell Chandra.

  “There’s not one continent on earth he hasn’t traveled to,

  as far as I can tell,

  and he knows all about making limbs and about physiotherapy,

  which is pretty exceptional, I think,

  but he never shows off.”

  Chandra raises her eyebrows. “You call your American doc

  by name?”

  “He’s not exactly my doctor. It’s like we’re friends.

  He even guesses my thoughts sometimes.”

  “So he’s cute?”

  “Not cute.” Cartoon characters are cute. “He’s . . . really manly.

  Tall. Strong. He’d lift me out of the wheelchair easily,

  no problem.

  He’s got brilliant blue-diamond eyes—”

  “Not cute, only drop-dead gorgeous?” Chandra squeals.

  “Youlikehim, youlikehim, youlikehim.”

  “Are you crazy?” I say. “He’s probably thirty years old.

  It’s not like that.

  Jim’s really nice. That’s all.”

  “Don’t get mad.” Chandra giggles. “I’m only teasing.”

  She pops a chickpea into her mouth. “Just be careful, okay?

  My eldest sister’s been dating a boy on the sly.

  A rich boy and not even our same caste.

  She said she was flirting for the fun of it,

  to pass time until my parents arranged a husband for her.

  Now she’s gone and fallen in love with him.

  You and your doc—it’s a lot different, I know—but

  he’s attractive

  and you’re together a lot.

  Don’t lose your head over the wrong guy

  like my sis.”

  CRUTCH FREE

  Walking almost noiselessly,

  free

  of the clomp of crutches,

  walking on my fake leg,

  arms free to swing,

  I feel as happy

  as a pinioned bird whose wings are finally growing.

  But every night, before taking off my limb for sleep,

  I need to keep my crutches within arm’s reach.

  I’ll never be completely

  crutch-free.

  NO

  Longer

  CENTER

  Queuing up behind my classmates

  the first day of exam week,

  I realize no one’s staring at me anymore.

  Either because I blend in better without my noisy crutches

  or because everyone’s wrapped up in their own worries

  about doing well.

  A few of my classmates mutter prayers

  as the doors of the long exam hall open.

  “Good luck,” Chandra and I wish each other.

  Chandra’s so anxious about exams her voice shakes,

  though, as I tell her, I’m sure she’ll excel.

  The exam supervisor assigns me a seat

  beneath a whirring ceiling fan that does little to ease the heat.

  My residual limb itches with sweat.

  I click my leg off under the desk,

  read the question paper, scribble nonstop.

  Three hours later, the exam supervisors announce,

  “Drop your pens. Now.”

  Hungry for lunch, I spring halfway up on one leg,

  forgetting the other’s off.

  Sway, clutch the desk to keep from falling,

  sit down, and click my leg back on.

  FAR

  from the

  ENVYING CIRCLE

  Elated I’m nobody at school again,

  eager to be somebody at dance class again,

  I celebrate the end of exam week

  by going to see my dance teacher

  to prove to myself and to him

  that I can keep on dancing.

  “Shouldn’t you wait for the better leg?” Paati asks.

  I have waited

  as patiently as a cactus waits for rain in the desert.

  Jim will be pleasantly surprised when we meet next and I say,

  “I’m dancing already.”

  He might even be so happy

  he hugs me.

  Uday anna’s front door is open,

  and when I enter,

  Uday anna whips around.

  “She’s walking!” Kamini says.

  “Come in. Sit down.” Uday anna motions to a chair.

  “We’ve missed you.”

  Missed me so much you didn’t visit?

  I don’t ask.

  Insulting him won’t get me what I want.

  I need to use my anger to fuel my dance.

  “I’ve missed dance,” I tell him. “But now I’m well

  enough to start again.”

  “You’ve lost your leg!” He shakes his head

  as though I’ve lost my mind.

  “Sir, haven’t you heard of Sudha Chandran?

  She danced with an old-style Jaipur foot.

  And I’m getting a far better prosthesis than hers. Soon.”

  “Veda, we must be practical—” Uday anna’s reluctance

  goads me on. I say,

  “I

  can

  dance.

  Even on this leg.”

  Feeling Kamini’s eyes on me,

  I turn to glare at her.

  To my surprise, she shows me the symbol for friendship,

  Keelaka hasta mudra:

  the little fingers of her hands bent and locked together.

  In her expression I see

  no hint of envy.

  She must be confident we’ll never compete again.

  Even the other girls stare at me

  expectant,

  not jealous.

  I’ll show them.

  I assume the basic Bharatanatyam stance:

  half-mandi.

/>   Toes turned out sideways, heels slightly apart, I lower my hips, bend my knees,

  shape my legs into the sides of a diamond.

  I raise my right foot, bring it down,

  raise my left foot, bring it down.

  Thaiya thai, thaiya thai. In slowest speed,

  I can easily do

  the first exercise every Bharatanatyam dancer learns.

  Kamini says, “Very good.” The girls clap.

  “Veda?” Uday anna says. “You forgot to salute the earth.”

  Practice or performance, every Bharatanatyam dancer

  must begin and end

  every session by apologizing to the earth,

  which dancers kick and stamp.

  In my hurry to prove myself, I forgot to go through the motions.

  “Sorry, Uday anna,” I mumble, “I’ll do it now.”

  My knees can bend enough to easily assume

  the half-sitting posture.

  I’ve never yet

  forced them farther out—as far as they need to bend

  for the full-sitting posture

  the salutation requires.

  What a fool I was not to test the limits of my flexibility

  before I came.

  Too late now.

  I lower my torso, feet sideways, heels together.

  I need to force my knees to bend out

  with heels off the ground, balancing on tiptoe,

  lowering my body down all the way

  until my buttocks rest on my heels.

  As I lower myself,

  I lose my sense of center,

  overbalance, tumble forward, and

  crash-land on the ground.

  “Veda!” Uday anna calls out. “Are you hurt?”

  The girls cluster around me,

  echoing Uday anna’s concern.

  Kamini helps me up.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  I try once more.

  Fall, almost, except Kamini catches me in time.

  “No more,” Uday anna says.

  Kamini turns away

  as though she can’t bear to see me so clumsy.

  Uday anna puts on his most gentle tone but

  some words can’t be softened.

  “Veda, so many of us