but met with an accident
that cost her her right foot.
You’ll be helping her relearn dance.”
If Govinda feels shocked that he’s getting a student who is a below-knee amputee, he doesn’t show it.
He presses his elegant, clove-dark hands together,
closes his eyes, and greets me the traditional way. “Namaskaram.”
His voice matches his looks—deep, rich, smooth.
The grace with which he bows his head and hands,
the seriousness with which he says Namaskaram,
as though he’s chanting a prayer,
remind me of what the greeting means—
that he salutes the God within me.
When I return his greeting, pressing my palms together,
it feels magical instead of mechanical.
Govinda’s gaze meets mine
and I burn with a desire to dance myself beautiful
in front of him.
A REAL
SMILE
“Dhanam akka’s the one,” I tell Paati
as I enter our apartment.
Breathing heavily, she heaves herself up
off the floor in front the household altar and says,
“Your teacher is lucky, Veda.
She’s found a student who’ll create a new world through dance
just as Shiva creates new universes through His steps.
A world where others with special limbs
will learn to enjoy their beauty.”
First thing Pa asks after he and Ma come home,
“How was the new dance school, Veda?”
No surprise there.
What surprises me is how Ma reacts to my answer.
She smiles a real smile.
SEEING BEAUTIFUL
In Jim’s office,
I see a chair covered with a white sheet.
“Ta-da!” he cries as he whips it off,
revealing a nearly lifelike limb.
“Is your new limb to your liking, ma’am?”
My skin tone matches the limb’s hue.
I stroke it. Something soft as flesh
fills the space between the metal skeleton and rubber skin.
I lift the limb.
It’s lighter than my trial limb.
I try it on.
When they’re side by side and compared closely,
my feet do look different. But no audience
could tell them apart if they saw me from a distance—onstage.
I press down on the toe.
When I ease off, I feel a springiness to the foot,
a push, giving me a faint pulse of energy back.
Almost a response.
“I love it!”
Jim grins. “Amazing, huh? That foot’s durable, too.
Should last a couple of years. Won’t wear out too quickly.”
“Wear out?”
“Don’t look so worried, kiddo.
The project will provide replacements.
Your foot will wear out
the way your shoes wear out.
No foot lasts a lifetime.”
Except the ones we’re born with.
Usually.
“Anything I can’t do with this leg?”
I want him to say one word:
No.
Jim launches into a list.
“. . . can’t wear high heels . . .
. . . can tiptoe only if knees are bent . . .
. . . can’t flex and point the foot . . .
but you’ll be able to dance Bharatanatyam.
A below-knee amputee
with faith in herself
is two-legged, not one-legged,
as far as I’m concerned.
“Now, ma’am, would you try out a few dance poses, please?
I want to make sure the fit’s perfect.”
Assuming the basic half-sitting pose
—feet splayed, knees out to the sides,
legs bent like the edges of a diamond—
I move my feet one at a time, slowly,
then at second speed,
then speeding up to third and fastest speed.
“Beautiful,” Jim says.
My heart races.
The naked admiration in his voice
makes me feel grown up.
But then Jim
squats and taps
my unfeeling limb.
“Beautiful,” he repeats. “Beautiful engineering,
beautiful design,
if I do say so myself.”
BOULDER
Twice the age and size
of every other beginner in Govinda’s classroom,
I feel as out of place as a boulder
brought down by the Ganga glacier
from the heights of the Himalayas
and abandoned on the river plain.
By the back wall of the sun-drenched classroom,
I skulk.
But I can’t hide how I tower
over the rest of my classmates.
A little girl looks up at me. “You’re so big!
Why’re you in this class?”
While I wonder how to react,
Govinda states matter-of-factly
that I lost a leg in an accident,
that I have a new one I’m learning to dance with.
“But we’re not here to chatter, children.
We’re here to learn Bharatanatyam. Right?” he says.
“Right!” Their attention shifts back to him.
“We begin every dance session with a prayer,” Govinda says.
Uday anna’s class never began or ended with prayers.
“Aangikam bhuvanam yasya; Vaachikam sarvavaangmayam;
Aahaaryam Chandrathaaraadhi;
Tham Namah Saathvikam Shivam.”
He who resides within every being in the universe;
who speaks the universal language;
whose ornaments are heavenly spheres;
Him we worship,
Shiva, the serene one.
Next, Govinda demonstrates
the dancer’s apology to Mother Earth.
With ease,
the rest of the class imitates his movements.
Palms on the wall for support,
I manage to follow them,
my pose imperfect, but not too noticeably different.
We begin the first exercise, hands on hips,
knees bent, feet to the sides,
raising each foot off the ground and bringing it down,
thaiya thai, thaiya thai.
Govinda’s voice fills the room.
“Empty yourselves of everything
except good thoughts.”
My eyes fix themselves
on the feet rising and stamping the earth so effortlessly.
It’s hard not to grudge the ease with which the others move.
I’m not sure I can empty myself of wishing
for those able bodies I don’t own.
TOUCH
LOST
Pa, Ma, Paati, Chandra, all ask,
“How does the new leg
feel?”
I don’t point out
their question misses a point:
Even this new leg
doesn’t
feel.
I won’t ever feel
five of my toes,
my ankle,
my instep,
my heel.
My right foot will never tell me if the floor is
wet/dry,
hot/cold,
flat/sloping,
rough/smooth,
bumpy/slippery.
My right leg has
lost touch with the world.
But when they ask,
I say,
“Amazing,”
because it feels amazingly better than the old trial limb
and because I know
that’s the answer
they need to hear.
ONLY
Three
TALENTS
Tired of holding the wall
when I perform the apology to the Earth Goddess,
I try it without support
although a tremor crawls up my spine
at the thought of falling in front of the children.
My feet and knees to the sides, I lower my torso,
my back erect.
I feel the weight on my left side rolling onto the ball of my foot,
feel my left heel lift off the ground.
But I can’t sense what my right foot is doing.
Unbalanced,
I tumble out of position.
My bottom bumps on the ground.
A giggle erupts and spreads.
The entire earth seems to shake with scorn.
I am a fallen piece of rubble.
“Silence.” Govinda’s eyes
leap like angry flames.
Every trace of laughter dies.
Govinda instructs the class to continue,
walks over to face me and assumes the pose himself:
knees bent all the way to the sides,
resting his torso on his heels, legs folded in half beneath him,
balancing on tiptoe, back perfectly straight.
He’s so close I catch the faint coconut scent of his hair.
“Veda, our ancient scriptures say
the best dancers must have ten talents:
balance,
agility,
steadiness,
grace,
intelligence,
dedication,
hard work,
the ability to sing well,
to speak well,
and to see deeply and expressively.
You’ve only lost the first three talents.
Only for a while.”
The three I need most.
What use are the rest?
“Soon you’ll regain all ten talents.”
Govinda waits.
In the depths of his eyes I see no pity.
Only patience and trust.
His hands stretch on either side of my waist
between the edge of my blouse and the top of my skirt
near enough to hold me from another fall
but not touching.
He thinks I can do it on my own.
“Only three have you lost.
Only temporarily.
You have all seven other talents.”
He repeats those words
as though they’re an incantation.
Listening to his resonant voice,
I rise to my mismatched feet.
TWO MEN
Our exam results arrive.
Chandra tops the list.
Paati and my parents sign a card for her and
Chandra and I go to her favorite café—Java Joy—to celebrate.
“Your family must be thrilled,” I tell her. “My ma’s backed off
since the accident,
but deep down
she probably still wishes I could be an engineer.
She’d exchange you
for me
any day.”
Chandra stabs a piece of cake. “Your family gives me
so much attention.
Mine hardly notices my achievements.
Everything I do, one of my sisters did already.
Plus, you know that boy my sister was seeing in secret?
His parents found out about them.
They were angry because they’re wealthier and a different caste.
So he dumped her.
She’s miserable, poor thing.
She was so upset she even told my parents about him
after they broke up.
So my parents are in a tizzy trying to set her up
with a suitable boy now. No time for me.”
To steer Chandra’s thoughts away from her family,
I ask if she’s decided what she wants to do in college yet,
though college is still years and many exams away.
“I’m going to become a biomedical engineer,”
she says, starting to cheer up. “Someday
I’ll make a leg that’ll listen to your brain
so you can do every Bharatanatyam pose you can think of.”
I’m glad my accident at least helped
Chandra figure out her career path.
Chandra spears another piece of cake.
“Speaking of dance poses, how’s it going with dancer boy?
He sounds interest-ing. And interest-ed.”
No boy is going to find me
attractive.
Least of all someone as gorgeous as Govinda.
“He’s helping you out a lot,” Chandra says.
I shrug. “He’s helping me out. Yes. Not asking me out.”
“Do you like him better than Jim?” Chandra asks.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t like either of them that way.”
But her question makes me uncomfortable.
In my mind, I see Jim and Govinda side by side.
Govinda standing tall like the dancer he is,
beautiful, serious, and as deeply in love with dance as I am;
Jim with his hands in his pockets, a teasing look in his eyes,
a cheerful glow lighting his face.
Jim, who’s traveled the world and still finds me special.
Chandra sings, “Veda’s in love with two men.
Who’s she going to pick?
Veda’s in love with two men. With whom will she stick?”
I ball up a tissue and toss it at her face.
BOLDER
“Look at you walk,”
Jim says. “Can hardly tell you’re wearing a prosthesis.
I’m so proud of you.
How’s the dance coming?”
“I love the spring in my new foot and
how much flexibility this leg gives my knee.
But I still can’t do the full-sitting pose easily.”
I sink as low as I can, knees out sideways,
legs almost folded in two,
showing him how hard it is to keep my balance.
Then I assume the lunge position:
one leg straight back, toes on the ground,
the other forward, bent at the knee,
torso straight.
“Can’t leap into this lunge position the way I’m supposed to.
Can’t do any exercise involving it without falling.”
“Not yet,” Jim says. “Does the leg pinch? Rub your skin sore?”
“No, but I tire too easily.”
“Veda, you’ll build up stamina. Faster than you think.”
Jim shows me squats to strengthen my left leg.
Exercises to help me work toward the poses I find difficult.
We spend more time together than usual.
He looks up at the clock and whistles.
“We need to stop, kiddo.”
Jim runs his rough fingers through his hair
and stares at his poster-filled wall.
His eyes dim.
He looks lonely.
Lost and lonely, like a stray puppy on the street.
Not the easygoing Jim who jokes with me.
<
br /> “Something wrong?” I wish I could help him.
Wish I could be part of his life outside this room
as a true friend would be.
“Just feeling a bit blue, kiddo.
I need to make some big decisions soon.”
I blabber, “Maybe you need a cup of coffee? And some cake?
There’s a nice café quite nearby—Java Joy.
Going there usually cheers up my friend Chandra.”
“Good idea. Maybe I’ll go there later.
Enjoy that leg until we meet again, okay?”
He turns to his computer.
I wasn’t recommending he go there on his own.
Didn’t he realize I was inviting him to go there
with me?
I take a deep breath.
Jim stops typing
and looks up, startled,
as though he’s wondering
why I’m still standing around.
“Another question I can help with, kiddo?”
“I was trying—wanted to say—I wish—you—I
hope that decision thing doesn’t get you down.”
I flee
as fast as my new leg will let me.
SYMMETRY
“Today, you’ll be moving your hands
instead of keeping them at your waist,” Govinda says.
The class twitters with excitement.
Govinda beckons to me.
“Please come up front?
I need your help.”
He stands so close behind,
I can almost feel his long fingers
touching my back.
“Watch how Veda holds her head and her neck
so it lengthens her spine.
I want you to stand just the way she does.
Imagine a line passing from the center of your head,
through your navel, down to your feet.
Every movement should begin along this line and return to it.
Hold your arms as evenly as Veda.
See the perfect symmetry
with which her right hand mirrors her left?”
The lilting notes of a bamboo flute
play a melody in my mind.
A Time to Dance Page 8