tha thai tha, dhit thai tha.
Govinda whispers, “Tha thai tha, dhit thai tha.”
He’s saying aloud
the same rhythm I hear in my head.
“Veda, can you hear it?
Music to dance to. All around us.”
“I hear it.”
I feel closer to him
than if we were in one another’s arms.
A PART
The evening of our performance
as a minor player in the large sweep of a dance production
the nervousness I feel is not for myself
but for Govinda, who is in the lead,
and for Radhika and all the others
who stay longer onstage than I do.
Akka lights a lamp backstage and we bow to it.
When it’s my turn,
my right foot leads my left
onto the stage
into the pain
I felt when my body and part of my life
were torn away.
My back hunched, I play the woman
overcome by age and illness.
In the scrape of the cane I hold,
I hear the echo of my crutches.
In my second role, as Gautami, I hold
not the body of my lost child,
but my severed limb.
When Gautami is comforted by strangers,
I hear the words strangers said to me after Paati’s death,
and feel a sense of peace.
Dhanam akka nods and gives me quick pat on the shoulder.
Radhika hugs me and says I was “amazing.”
Govinda’s little sister, Leela, joins me in the wings.
Together, we watch the rest of the play.
At the end of the evening,
Govinda leads me onstage with him,
ahead of the rest of the cast
despite my minor role.
Standing together in a group, we press our palms together
and bow our heads to salute the audience.
When our shared applause comes,
it feels like being part of a winning cricket team,
only far, far better.
Because I’m part of a dance team,
together with people who share my love of dance.
TO STAND
I find Govinda slumped in a chair when I enter akka’s study
for our first class together after our performance.
I can’t imagine why he looks so defeated.
“Govinda? You were wonderful onstage.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me.
“My parents want me to cut back on dance
now that the production is over.
To work with a tutor.
Prepare for college entrance tests.
Become an engineer.
I don’t know how I can argue anymore—”
He breaks off and stares at the carpet.
It was hard enough for me just fighting my ma,
having Pa and Paati supporting me.
Govinda has no one in his family backing him up.
I put my hands on his shoulders.
“On top of it all,” Govinda says,
“there’s a new beginner class I’m supposed to teach.
I don’t want to give up my own dance lessons with akka—
but there’s not enough time to do everything.”
“What if I teach your beginner class
so you don’t have to give up your own—” I stop short,
shocked by my own words.
Me? A teacher? What am I thinking?
Govinda straightens up as if I lifted a load
off his back.
“That’s a great idea. You’d be good for the kids.
You’ll love teaching. And I could use the extra time to study.”
Every trace of dullness leaves him.
He looks so relieved
that I can’t take back my offer.
“Thanks, Veda.
Thanks so much. Let’s talk to akka.”
Hoping akka will refuse to let me teach,
I follow Govinda out of the study.
Unfortunately, akka seems pleased I volunteered
to help him out.
“One learns best through teaching,” she says.
“I’m glad you’d like to teach dance, Veda.”
TEACHING
to
LEARN
A roomful of eager eyes turns toward me.
My voice trembles. “Namaskaram.
My name is Veda.” I think of the grace with which
Govinda imbued that word and gesture the first time we met.
The only little boy in class is first to introduce himself.
“My name is Roshan,” he says, his round face beaming.
He’s followed by six small, excited girls.
Only one girl hangs back,
a faded scarf covering her mouth and chin
despite the heat.
“What’s your name?” I approach her,
hoping to make her feel welcome.
Her ragged clothes suggest she’s one of the poorer students.
“Uma,” she answers, a cautious look in her large eyes,
her scarf muffling her voice.
Is she hiding her face
because she’s painfully shy?
I teach the children the starting prayer,
show them how to do the first exercise.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor,
I wipe my sweaty palm dry on my skirt.
I’m not scared to tap out basic rhythms. I know how.
I’m not even worried about how I’ll look dancing
the basic exercises in front of the children;
I can manage all of them, if imperfectly.
What frightens me is living up to the example Govinda set.
Govinda, so generous, caring, concerned.
Paati’s voice whispers in my mind. “I was a teacher.
Your pa is a teacher. It’s in your blood.”
Clutching the stick with both hands,
I tap out the first rhythm in first speed.
Thaiya thai, thaiya thai.
Repeating the rhythm, my voice and my hands grow steady.
After class, I look for Uma,
who hid half her face behind her scarf
the entire time she danced.
She’s disappeared.
DRIVE
Govinda’s usually in akka’s study waiting for me
well ahead of our class time.
But I rush in
eager to tell him
how my classes with the children are going,
only to find the room empty.
I look out the window.
See a figure running up the drive.
But it’s not Govinda.
Govinda’s never late.
Maybe he’s caught in traffic.
Or—what if—
A sickening fear slithers in the pit of my stomach.
I pace the room for what feels like forever
but the clock tells me is only ten minutes.
Akka enters the study.
“Govinda’s on the phone for you.”
“Govinda, I was so worried!
Thank goodness you’re all right.
What happened? Where are you?”
“Veda, I’m really, really sorry.
I can’t come today.
My parents arranged for a tutor to coach me at home.
He went on and on. We lost track of time.
I should have called sooner.”
Pretending I’m patient,
t
rying to be there for him like he always was for me,
I hold back the anger
that’s swirling up inside me like a dancer’s skirts.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I understand.”
SEEING I
I catch Uma
as she tries to run out the door after class.
“Why do you always
hide your face?” I ask. “You should take off the scarf
and free up your neck.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Please,
don’t be angry.
I love dance.”
“Then show us your face so we can see how much you love it.
Dancers don’t hang their heads.”
Uma starts to turn her head away,
but I cup her chin
and her scarf slips a few inches lower.
Enough to unveil her cleft lip.
“I want to dance,” she says,
“but I’m not pretty enough to show my face.
Please let me keep my scarf.”
Tears shine like diamonds caught in her thick, long lashes.
“Uma, you’re safe here. I’d never let anyone tease you.
I promise you’ll feel graceful and beautiful
if you dance freely.”
But Uma ties her scarf
tight around her mouth.
Next class, Uma still hangs her head
and dances, face half-hidden,
looking as unsure of herself
as she did on the first day.
PRESENT
I’m walking toward akka’s study
for class with Govinda
when akka meets me and hands me an envelope.
“Something small, a little early—
for your upcoming birthday.”
Stammering thanks, I drop the envelope, shocked.
I didn’t know she knew my birthday.
She flicks her hand as though swatting away a mosquito.
“Consider it an assignment, Veda.
There’s a dance recital I want you to attend
ahead of your birthday.
Whirling Sufi dervishes will perform.
And non-classical dancers of other faiths and traditions.
Watching them will teach you something, I hope.”
I slit the envelope to find three tickets.
Akka explains, “I thought Govinda might join you.
And I presume if you went out with a boy in the evening,
your parents would prefer if someone else came along.”
I can’t wait to invite Govinda.
But I’m forced to.
Apologizing, Govinda rushes into the study.
Late.
Half an hour late.
I shove the tickets akka gave me
away in my bag.
STRONG
QUIET
Roshan, the only boy in class, surprises me
by entering stealthily,
his shoulders slumped,
his neck drooping almost as low as Uma’s always does.
I crouch beside him and ask what’s wrong.
He tells me, “My big brother said
strong boys do sports. Real boys don’t dance.”
“He’s wrong, Roshan. Strong boys are brave enough
to fight for what they want.
Strong boys care about Karma and what’s right,
not following the crowd.
You tell that to anyone who says
you’re weak because you like dance. Okay?”
My words seem to reach Roshan.
He rapidly bounces
back to his normal, cheerful self.
PLACES
of
PRAYER
I open Paati’s prayer books,
dust off her brass bell,
light a stick of incense,
and sit cross-legged
on the ground in front of our household altar
although it’s hard to do with my prosthesis.
I pray I’ll find a way
to help Uma
find happiness and confidence through dance.
And I pray I’ll find my way
through my tangled mess of feelings for Govinda.
Not a flicker of light penetrates through my confusion.
But if nothing else,
if Paati’s soul hasn’t been reincarnated in another body,
if she’s out there somewhere watching me,
she’d be happy seeing me fill our house with prayer.
Wherever she is now,
maybe my voice can reach her.
Pa joins me on the floor in front of the altar.
He thanks me
for keeping Paati’s traditions alive in our home.
He says he’s glad she planted her faith inside me.
SKIRT
Ironing the hem of my school skirt,
I tell Chandra about the three tickets
akka gave me for the concert.
“You’ll come, won’t you?”
“So I can hold one of your hands while Govinda holds the other?”
Suppressed laughter leaps in Chandra’s eyes.
The iron hisses. “I’m not sure he likes me that way, Chandra.
He’s always busy. Studying.
Maybe I mistook Govinda’s feelings for me
like I misread Jim’s.
Imagining there’s something between us
though all Govinda sees in me is a friend.”
“Studying for college entrance tests is tough, Veda.
What d’you think I’m doing when you’re off dancing?
Working as hard as I can to make good grades.”
“You still make time for me.
Govinda cancels classes. Or comes late.”
“He’s probably just having trouble
fitting things into his new schedule.
I’ve given up cricket so I can study every spare minute.
Govinda could have given up your classes together,
but he’s trying to manage everything, isn’t he?
Studying for college, teaching you,
and keeping up with his own dance lessons.”
The skirt has a stubborn crease.
I press it out with my steaming iron.
Chandra’s right.
Govinda has done—is still trying to do—a lot for me.
Chandra folds my shirt, puts it away.
“Are you having fun teaching?” she asks.
I tell her about Uma.
“I’m sure her parents are too poor to pay for an operation.
She loves dance, but doesn’t do it right
because she’s trying so hard to hide her mouth.
I wish I could get her to feel
safe enough in class to not worry.
But I don’t know how to help her. I’m a useless teacher.”
Chandra marches to my dresser. Rummages through.
Yanks out the short blue batik skirt I bought
last time we went shopping together.
When I had two real legs.
She fingers the price tag. “Brand-new.
You’ve never worn this skirt?”
My iron splutters. I turn it off.
“What does that skirt have to do with anything?”
“You’re always covering up your leg
but you want to teach Uma she’s not ugly?”
Chandra throws the skirt at me.
The silky fabric is rumpled
from being squashed in the back of a drawer.
I smooth out the wrinkles,
spread the skirt flat on my ironing table.
Turn my iron back
on.
STRENGTH
Govinda arrives
only a little late.
Apologizing as usual.
“I hate studying,” he adds, quietly.
“I miss being with you like we used to.
Wish I could study less and dance more.”
He misses being with me!
“Govinda, akka gave me tickets. To a dance recital.
Can you come?”
Without even checking his calendar, he shakes his head.
“I’m so sorry, Veda. I wish I could.
My parents wouldn’t understand
if I took an entire evening off for a dance concert.
Not right now.”
After those magical moments we shared by the lotus pond,
both hearing the same music in our minds;
after dancing so close together at Radhika’s party
—was I wrong to feel our friendship
was deepening into more?
“Veda, I’m so behind on mathematics.
I have so much to catch up on.
I love dance. But it isn’t my life.”
Govinda sounds like he’s reading a speech
written by someone else,
trying to convince himself it’s true,
and failing.
“What is your life, Govinda?
Whatever your parents tell you it should be?”
“Veda, please. Try to understand,” he pleads,
“I like you. A lot. But I’m not like you.”
Didn’t I want Govinda to say he liked me?
Shouldn’t I be happy?
But the moment feels all wrong.
I want him to repeat it,
say it strongly.
Wanting him to reassure me
that he likes me enough
he’ll never give up our time together,
I say, “I can work on my own, Govinda.
A Time to Dance Page 13