Ma’s cooked dinner.
I’ve prepared our entertainment:
mixed henna powder with hot lemon juice
so we can paint henna tattoos on our skin.
I ask if I may invite another guest.
“Sure,” Pa says. “Even a boy.”
“Your friend Govinda?” Ma suggests.
I shake my head.
I change into the blue batik skirt that ends above my knee
and walk downstairs to the Subramaniams’ apartment,
my legs no longer hidden.
Shobana gazes at my outfit and gives me a thumbs-up sign,
though her mother purses her lips.
Mrs. Subramaniam probably finds my skirt too short
but at least she doesn’t say so.
And she nods enthusiastically
when I invite Shobana upstairs.
Chandra offers to play henna artist.
“Birthday girl, which hand
would you like me to paint first?”
I sit in Paati’s wicker chair.
Stretch out my legs.
“Feet first, please?”
She paints identical patterns on both feet,
from the tips of my toes to below my ankles.
When she’s done, my feet look exactly alike,
covered with curly jasmine creepers,
hearts, lines, flowers, stars, spirals, circles.
That night, I reach under the covers.
Stroke the skin of my residual limb.
My C-shaped scar is smooth to the touch.
And it’s shrunk into a crescent
thin as the last sliver of the waning moon.
SKIPPING STONE
I pause by the gate of Kamini’s home.
Through a window, I see her
racing through a set of steps,
her blouse dark with sweat.
She is a pebble skipping
over the surface of a lake.
As I once was.
Not a deep sinking stone that leaves widening ripples behind
after it’s disappeared.
As I hope to be.
I knock and Kamini answers the door.
“I came to thank you, Kamini.
For remembering my birthday.
For visiting me in the hospital.
It was so nice of you.
I’m sorry I never—”
“Not nice,” Kamini interrupts.
“I did a horrid thing.
After you won that competition, I . . .”
She chokes up, then continues.
“I prayed something would happen so you
could never dance again.
But I never thought—I never wanted—
I’m so very sorry.”
“You did what?” I say.
Kamini flinches
as though I hit her.
I didn’t think anyone
could be that spiteful.
But it takes courage
to confess something like that.
I put my hand on her elbow.
“Do you really think
bad things happen
if someone prays?
I’m not sure who or what there is out there we pray to
but I doubt things work that way.”
“So you forgive me?” Kamini asks.
“Sure.” I shrug.
“Thanks,” she says,
but her voice is hesitant, like she’s having trouble believing me.
“Kamini? I’m still dancing.”
“You—you are? Bharatanatyam?”
“Yes. Bharatanatyam.”
“Thank God. Thank God. Veda, next time you compete,
I hope you win, I swear.”
“Kamini, to me, dance isn’t about competitions any longer.
And it might sound crazy,
but I’m not upset about the accident anymore.
The accident made me a different kind of dancer.”
Kamini shakes her head like she doesn’t understand.
But I don’t know how to explain
that my love for dance is deeper.
That dance feels more meaningful now.
So I just give her hand a quick squeeze.
And she says, “I’m so glad you stopped by.
Thanks for taking the time to make me feel better.”
TO TOUCH
Sitting in a chair with my students crowding around me,
I take my leg off.
Let them touch it.
As I tell them about my accident
even Uma inches forward.
“My old teacher didn’t think I could dance again.
But dance isn’t about who you are on the outside.
It’s about how you feel inside.”
I place my palms together in front of me,
symbolizing the two leaves of a closed door.
Move them apart, slowly, opening the door.
“In class, you need to shut out
sad thoughts and mean words.
So dance can let you
enter another world.
A world where you feel Shiva inside you.
Where you grow beautiful and strong and good,
because Shiva is goodness and strength and beauty.”
We begin to dance.
Uma’s eyes follow me around the classroom.
I should correct her.
I should direct her gaze toward her fingertips.
I don’t.
Because Uma’s scarf is loose around her shoulders.
Because when it slithers to the floor,
she doesn’t stoop to pick it up.
Because head erect, chin lifted,
she’s joined the very front row
and she’s giving me an uncovered smile.
DANCING
THANKS
After the children trickle out,
I go outside and
raise my eyes to the heavens,
my palms pressed together,
thanking God for Uma’s smile.
Like a farmer welcoming a long-awaited monsoon
I dance onto the empty stage
beneath the shaggy banyan tree.
A crescent moon is barely visible
in the mauve glow of the evening sky.
In it
I see the crescent caught in Shiva’s matted locks.
In it
I see the crescent scar on my residual limb.
I shift my weight from one leg to the other,
turning in a circle.
Slowly.
Each green leaf above
looks purer and brighter than ever.
For my invisible audience
of the One
I
begin
to dance.
Colors blur into whiteness
and a lilting tune
that is and is not of the world
resonates within
and without me.
My body
feels
whole.
In the beat of my heart
I hear
again
the eternal rhythm
of Shiva’s feet.
REACHING IN
“Good.”
I look up to see Dhanam akka
standing in front of me.
“Good,” she repeats.
A word I’ve never heard
her say to me until today.
“I am a teacher and yet
there are limits to what I can teach.
I cannot teach a student how to create
the sa
cred space a meditative dancer enters,
and so invites her audience to enter.
She must discover it on her own.
Alone beneath this banyan tree today
you danced without any desire for acclaim.
So your dancing feet led you
into the temple of the dancing Shiva
where they will always lead you, and those who watch,
as long as you dance for your vision of the sacred.
You carried my soul to a great height.
Thank you.”
I
should be thanking
her.
“I’d like you to start
solo lessons with me,” akka continues.
“But, akka—
I’m not yet—I’m not advanced enough.”
“Aren’t you?” Laughter
spills out of akka,
her mouth
thrown open so wide
I can see both rows of her teeth.
“There are three kinds of love, Veda.
A healthy love of one’s physical self,
compassion for others,
and an experience of God.
Most of my students take decades
to experience these loves through dance.
Yet you are already starting to understand all three.
So I shall do all I can to ensure
your wish to become a dancer is fulfilled.”
I want to say—do—something to thank her.
But my tongue and my hands and my head
feel too heavy with joy
to move.
“A guru is a kind of parent.
And although you are not my daughter now,
perhaps you were in a previous life.
Or will be in a future one.”
Akka rests a hand briefly on my forehead.
Then she leaves.
STRETCHING AHEAD
As I leave the stage beneath the banyan tree,
I see
Govinda racing up the drive toward me.
“Veda, I got your note and I came to tell you
news I hope you’ll be happy about.
I’m sorry it took me so long to share this with you
but it hasn’t been easy.”
Govinda’s tone is nervous,
words streaming out faster than usual.
“With akka’s help, I found a dance scholarship
with room and board.
I told my parents I was going to move out and take it.
My dad threw a fit.
He threatened to cut me out of his will.
But my mom sided with me
and my dad’s made peace.
Maybe my finding that scholarship
finally made them both see
what dance meant to me.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you!
But akka never said a word about all this.
Radhika didn’t either.”
“Only because I wanted to tell you myself, Veda.
I needed to work things out. Trust I’d be able to do it.
Please don’t be angry—
I won’t keep things from you again.”
“You’re always keeping things from me,” I tease.
“I never knew you were a talented artist
until you sent me those sketches on my birthday.”
“You liked my sketches?
Will you come with me sometime for a cup of coffee?
I’d have asked you out earlier,” he rushes on,
“except I felt I didn’t deserve you.
You’re so strong and such a fighter.
I was always doing exactly what my parents wanted.
Until now.
So, yes or no, Veda?”
“Yes or no what?”
“Will you go out with me for a cup of coffee?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I prefer tea, thank you.”
FADING PHANTOMS
Govinda meets me at an outdoor café.
We sit at a table
under a pipul tree.
The type of tree that ripped up my life.
And so the tree that helped me lose
and find dance.
My limb feels hot and sweaty.
I unclick my right leg, roll the socks off my residual limb,
expose my skin to the cool breeze.
A big yellow Labrador runs over from a neighboring table
and sniffs at my residual limb.
As the dog’s tail brushes against my crescent-moon scar,
my phantom limb tingles into life.
But it tickles instead of prickling with pain.
I laugh. Uncontrollably.
“What?” Govinda says. “What?”
“The dog’s brought my ghost sensation back.
Except this time, my leg’s tickling me.”
Govinda yanks the dog away and glances
at the space below my limb
as if he’s searching for my phantom.
I take his hand,
lead it to the nonexistent length of leg.
His fingers feel soft.
His fingers feel good
stroking my invisible skin.
So good I want him stroking my real skin.
Want to reach out and stroke his.
My desire scares me and I reach for the safety of my teacup.
My ghost limb fades.
Govinda lays a hand on my cheek.
I lean into his touch.
He looks shy
and almost as scared
as I was just feeling.
I burst out laughing.
Never imagined we’d share being scared
the first time we went out together.
“What’s so funny now?”
“You. You look so frightened.”
“I am frightened.” He exhales.
Then smiles and slides
closer to me.
EPILOGUE
TEMPLE
of the
DANCING GOD: REVISITED
Some places that sprawl in childhood memories
shrivel in size when revisited.
But the temple of the dancing God
feels just as large when I visit again,
honored with an invitation to perform there at a dance festival;
not any smaller than when I, as a child
touching sculpted feet,
first craved the gift of dance
He gave our world.
Before my performance begins on the outdoor stage,
I pour a handful of white jasmine blossoms
at the dancing feet of the bronze Shiva.
From a lofty corner a celestial dancer
smiles at me.
Beneath another curtained sanctum
where an empty space represents God as formless,
I bow; and bow to the crystal symbolizing God
as the fragmented light within us
that strengthens through each compassionate act
as our souls progress from one life to the next.
Akka’s cymbals strike a crisp, clear note,
calling me to the open-air stage
where Ma, Pa, Chandra, and Govinda wait
with the rest of the audience.
I close my outward-seeing eyes and meditate
on the spot between my brows
covered by the dot of sacred vermillion.
Noises of night harmonize with the drumbeats.
Music
fills and lifts
me.
My body fe
els small as a speck of silvered dust
swirling upward in a cone of moonlight.
I dance
dance
dance.
Beyond
movement
for one long moment:
shared
stillness.
Then applause pierces the night
like the chirping of sparrows at dawn.
Closing my eyes to the blinding glare of the spotlight,
I salute the infinite presence within everyone in the crowd,
then slip away
until the clapping sounds as distant
as an echo from a past life.
Alone in the soft darkness of the temple courtyard,
I trace the curves of all ten perfect toes
with my fingertips.
And touch the sacred earth
beneath
both my beautiful feet.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
One of my earliest memories is of Smt. Shoba Sharma as a girl, dancing at my brother’s wedding ceremony. She became a performer and dance teacher despite suffering serious physical injury. This work of fiction is inspired by her life and the lives of other dancers who overcame physical trauma, such as Smt. Sonal Mansingh, Smt. Sudha Chandran, Sri. Nityananda, and Clayton Bates (the disabled African-American tap dancer whose photograph Veda sees on Jim’s wall). Smt. Kamala Lakshmi Narayanan, a child prodigy who grew into a famous performer, and Smt. Ambika Buch, an amazing teacher and exponent of the Kalakshetra school, introduced classical dance to me at an early age. My understanding of the spiritual aspect of Bharatanatyam came later, just as Veda’s does in the novel. The Sanskrit verses I translated and interpreted here are taken from original texts.
Between the ages of seven and fourteen, I was privileged to have daily lessons in Carnatic music (to which Bharatanatyam dance is set) from Smt. Savitri Rajan, disciple of Veenai Dhanammal. Like akka in the novel, she never accepted payment for her lessons. This book, I hope, serves as a guru dakshina to her and to Sri. T. Krishnamacharya, who introduced me to yoga and Vedic chanting, and thus to the universality of spiritual truth that underlies our religious diversity.
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