A Time to Dance

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A Time to Dance Page 11

by Padma Venkatraman


  Govinda doesn’t clarify where I stand in his affections.

  He grins and waves a gift-wrapped package in front of my face. “For you.”

  “Why? It’s not my birthday or anything.” I reach for it.

  Govinda snatches it away just as my fingers touch the ribbon.

  “It’s not your birthday or anything?

  Maybe I should wait and give it to you later.”

  “Give it here.” I dart forward.

  “Come and get it,” he taunts, quickening his pace,

  keeping the package just out of my reach.

  He makes me chase him,

  then lets me pin him against the banyan’s trunk.

  “I got you to run fast.

  That, in itself, should count as a lesson,” he says,

  raising the package high above his head.

  We tussle for it. A button on his shirt pops

  and I feel the bare skin of my waist

  press against his skin.

  The package feels hotter than a handful of flames.

  I let go.

  Govinda hands it to me.

  I untie the ribbon and open the package.

  Inside is a bright yellow paper kite

  in the shape of some four-legged animal with a long tail.

  “Like it? I made it.”

  I love how uncertain he looks.

  And most of all

  that he spent time and effort to make me something.

  “It’s beautiful, Govinda. Is it a

  . . . gecko?”

  He groans. “My sister thought it was, too.

  It’s meant to be a dragon.”

  “Geckos are sort of like real-life dragons.

  Kind of magical, you know?

  They have the power to regrow lost tails.”

  My words surprise me but it’s good to find

  I’m no longer envious of animals

  whose powers of regeneration I lack.

  “I don’t know how to fly kites, though.”

  “If there’s a field near your place and your parents don’t mind,

  I could come by and teach you,” he offers.

  He’s so focused on me,

  I feel I can see his soul shining

  in the depths of his eyes.

  FLIGHT

  of

  FEELING

  I’m in the bedroom

  trying to choose the prettiest dot to wear on my forehead

  when I hear Pa welcome Govinda in.

  My heart thuds

  as though I’m dancing in the third and fastest speed.

  Govinda’s voice is offset by a high-pitched childish one.

  He’s brought his sister along.

  I try not to feel too disappointed.

  We will still have time together,

  he did make me a gift for no reason,

  and bringing her shows how nice he is to everyone.

  Mrs. Subramaniam’s eyes pop out of their sockets

  when she sees me and Govinda

  walking out of our building together.

  I realize I’ve never seen Shobana

  or even any of her older daughters with a boy.

  Until they were engaged.

  When we reach the field,

  Govinda whispers, “Sorry I brought Leela.

  I have a hard time saying no to her.”

  “You’re a sweet older brother.

  Nothing wrong with that,” I say.

  A caged look comes over Govinda’s face.

  “I’m still having a hard time saying no

  to what my parents want me to do with my life, too, though.

  I hate disturbing the peace and that’s not always good.”

  I try to lighten his mood.

  “You’d prefer to be a demon like me?”

  “I actually would.” He touches my chin with a forefinger.

  “I’d love to be brave enough, clear enough,

  to show them how much I want to be a dancer.

  Every time the topic comes up, my pa and ma tell me

  how hard they’ve worked

  so I could have a comfortable life,

  how long it took to establish their firm and make it flourish,

  how it’s my duty to earn well

  so I can look after them in their old age

  and my duty to look after their legacy that I’ll inherit.”

  “Maybe you should try having an accident.

  Worked well with me and my ma.”

  Shaking his head, Govinda smiles.

  “Can’t believe you can joke about that!”

  Leela interrupts us,

  yanking at Govinda’s arm and yelling, “Help me fly my kite!”

  He ruffles her hair.

  Leela shrieks, “I’m flying, I’m flying,”

  as they launch her kite into the clear sky.

  It’s my turn next.

  “Keep the string taut.” Govinda shouts instructions at me.

  I feel a gust of air catch my kite, lift it, then suddenly drop away,

  almost sending it crashing into the trees.

  I reel the line in.

  The yellow paper tail loops, swirls,

  climbs until it’s a tiny golden streak,

  long tail glittering.

  I take tiny steps, forward and back.

  The sun warms my face and I feel the wind racing

  as if my kite is carrying me into the sky.

  I feel small. Light.

  Hear a tinkling tune in my ears—high and sweet—

  the sound of silver bells.

  I almost feel the way I did as a child, dancing.

  Govinda says, as though he can read my mind,

  “That’s what the best dancers do.

  They focus on dance.

  They forget their feet, their bodies,

  their dancer selves.

  They let dance tug their souls upward.

  And as they rise,

  they lift their audiences closer to heaven, too.”

  ABSOLUTE

  Joyful music plays in my head all the next day. But

  when I come home from school,

  an ambulance is screeching

  away from our building.

  “Paati collapsed,” I hear Ma say.

  “Pa’s in the ambulance with her.”

  The music stops.

  Mrs. Subramaniam runs out of her apartment.

  I hear her shocked voice

  asking what happened, which hospital.

  Calling a taxi to rush us there.

  My tongue is frozen.

  Chandra told me once about absolute zero,

  a temperature cold enough to bring

  the universe to a standstill.

  My heart feels like it’s at absolute zero.

  Pa meets me and Ma in the hospital waiting room,

  his cheeks shrunk with worry.

  Heart attack, he says, but she survived.

  Thank God. Ma sobs.

  Pa and Ma lean against one another.

  Shivering, I sink into a chair.

  NIGHT

  My room feels deathly silent

  without Paati’s breath lulling me to sleep.

  I run my fingertips over the feet

  of my bronze statue of Shiva dancing

  on the table between our beds.

  “Please. Let Paati come back home.”

  Moonlight drips into the dark room.

  I slip out of bed, crawl on the floor,

  yank open the metal trunk beneath Paati’s bed,

  in which she stores her things,

  and drink in the soothing basil-aloe scent of h
er soap.

  Paati’s saris glow,

  a shell-bright patch of white.

  I take a sari out of the trunk.

  Lay it on my pillow.

  Bury my face in it.

  Let it soak up my tears.

  Bathed in her fragrance and her softness,

  I drift toward sleep.

  GHOST WHITE

  Lying in her hospital bed, in her white sari,

  Paati looks like a ghost.

  I rub her fingers. “Are you in pain? How are you feeling?”

  “Well enough to get out of here soon.

  Tell me about you,” Paati says.

  I half sob, half laugh with relief. “I’m okay.”

  “Tell me more or I’ll throw you out myself,” she says.

  “Paati, I’m waiting for you to come back. I miss you so much

  I’ve been praying to my Shiva at night.”

  Paati circles my wrist with her fingers. Her touch is frail

  but her eyes brighten and she says, “Good.”

  I stroke the folds of skin on her cheeks, her forehead,

  the silvery strands of her hair spread out on the pillow,

  thin as strips of moonlight on a cloud.

  A nurse pokes in, saying

  an old student of Paati’s wants to see her,

  can she let the woman in?

  “So many years since I taught.

  Yet students keep remembering and returning with love.

  Maybe you should try teaching dance someday.

  Maybe if I’ve accumulated enough good Karma,

  I’ll be one of your students in my next life.” She chuckles.

  I don’t. I don’t want to think about Paati’s future lives.

  I’m just glad she’s still here, near me,

  in this one.

  THE DANCE

  of

  ATOMS

  Chandra comes over to ask about Paati.

  I ask her to go to the temple with me

  so we can pray for Paati’s health.

  We walk past the empty lot

  where Paati and I met the beggar

  who wished me better Karma in my next life.

  Lightning and thunder rip the sky.

  Within moments, the road turns into a brown river.

  Plastic bags, banana peels, coconut husks

  float on the dirty water like disoriented boats.

  Chandra and I shelter

  under the eaves of a nearby fruit vendor’s hut.

  Craning my neck,

  I see the beggar

  crouched beneath his tarpaulin, shivering.

  I have so much, even though I lost a leg.

  I have Chandra walking beside me,

  Govinda helping me relearn what I love,

  Ma and Pa both supporting me,

  Paati still alive and soon to return home.

  But the question I asked Paati returns to me.

  Why did God leave that beggar with nothing?

  “Chandra, do you believe in God? In Karma?

  If He’s the soul of compassion, why does He let people suffer?”

  Chandra shrugs.

  “Physics says every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

  Karma is kind of the same, isn’t it?

  Good actions result in rewards, sooner or later.

  If you cause suffering, instead, something bad will return to you.

  As for God, the fact that atoms are inside everything

  tells me God is within us all.

  I see His cosmic dance of creation as

  the spinning of electrons within every atom.

  Science is God enough for me.”

  But not

  for me.

  I think of the last time I was at this temple with Paati,

  her silver head bent in prayer, so empowered by her faith.

  The image of her, so sure, so firm in her belief,

  gives me comfort.

  And though I’m not sure what God means to me

  or if He hears me,

  I pray as hard as I can

  for Paati’s safe return home.

  SEEING

  SHIVA

  Home from the hospital,

  Paati can no longer pray sitting cross-legged

  on the floor in front of our household altar.

  I offer to bring the other deities to our bedside table

  where my Shiva dances.

  Paati shakes her head.

  So instead, I fetch the bottle of oil.

  As I massage her,

  Paati says, “Objects of prayer used to help me focus my mind.

  I don’t need them anymore.

  Shiva dances everywhere.

  In everyone. In everything.”

  DANCE

  YOGA

  In class with Govinda,

  I fall almost at once.

  He pulls me to my feet,

  his eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Something’s wrong.”

  “My grandma had a heart attack.

  She’s home now, but I’m so scared—” My voice breaks.

  He strokes my back. “I’m glad she’s better now.”

  His voice is a soothing balm.

  I add, “Akka says I’m clearly showing my pain,

  but not the peace Gautami found after accepting her loss.

  I don’t feel peaceful, Govinda.

  I can’t show what I don’t know.”

  Govinda stands erect.

  Starts

  moving

  slower than I thought possible.

  Watching his body flow

  from one pose to the next,

  moving in concert with the rise and fall of his chest,

  is as calming

  as watching clouds drift across a blue sky.

  “Dance is a form of yoga. Natya yoga,” he says.

  “Marry your movement with your breath.

  Rest your palms on mine.” He extends his hands toward me,

  his palms beneath mine,

  offering gentle support.

  I discover it isn’t easy to dance so slowly.

  If anything, it’s harder than going fast.

  When I go slow, every asymmetry is magnified.

  “Veda? Don’t worry about how you look.

  About anything.”

  Breath for deep breath, I match Govinda.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

  We breathe as one.

  Our paired breath is the only sound in the room.

  “Some of us meditate through movement,” Govinda says.

  “Meditation isn’t about pushing your body,

  it’s about respecting it,

  the way you’d respect

  every other space within which God dwells.”

  My breath doesn’t race

  like it used to when I danced fast and furious.

  There’s no rush of blood to my head.

  No gush of excitement in my chest.

  Dancing slowly makes a new feeling

  of joy enter my body.

  A joy that seems longer lasting

  than the bubbles of delight that rose within me

  when I danced in the past.

  As I relax, I sense how tightly I’d reeled in my chest,

  holding myself as tensely as a warrior queen,

  charging into battle,

  weighted down by armor.

  I feel

  Govinda peeling

  my armor away.

  INVITED

  After dance rehearsal, Radhika invites me

  to her birthday party.

  “I live next door to Govinda.<
br />
  He’ll be there,” she says.

  A pang of jealousy pricks me like a needle

  but she adds, as if to reassure me, “He’s like my brother.

  We’ve been neighbors since we were three.”

  I feel relieved,

  until she says, “I’ve never seen him so crazy

  about any other girl.”

  He was crazy about other girls? Who? I can’t help feeling

  another jab of envy.

  “Party?” Pa rolls the word in his mouth

  when I ask permission to go. “Party? Girls only?”

  “Only a few boys. From the dance class. Please?”

  I don’t remember begging for anything else.

  Ma tells Pa, “It’s during the day.

  At a girl’s home. Her parents will be there.

  And that nice boy, Govinda, whom we met.

  Of course she should go.”

  Forced to agree with Ma, Pa says yes.

  I thank him.

  And fling my arms around Ma.

  TOAD

  in a

  LOTUS LAKE

  In the over-cooled air of Radhika’s parents’ mansion,

  after my hot, dusty bus ride,

  I shiver.

  My loose kurti shirt and long salwar trousers

  look frumpy

  compared to the tight tops and short skirts

  every other girl seems to be wearing.

  And I feel flat-footed as they tower over me

  in high heels that clip-clop across the marble floor.

  I want to run out the carved front door

  at which I left my slippers the way I would

  at any normal Indian home,

  instead of keeping them on like the others have

  as though we’re in some hotel.

  My naked toes curl and dig into my foot.

  I feel uglier and more out of place

  than a warty toad stuck in a lake full of lotuses.

  DIFFERENT DANCES

  “Veda! I was waiting for you.”

  Govinda offers me the warmth of his hand and I take it.

 

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