Clinging to the free end of Ma’s sari,
I follow the tired shuffle of other pilgrims’ feet
into the cool darkness of the temple,
where sweat-smell mingles with the fragrance of incense.
Pa’s hand rests heavy on my curls.
The priest drops a pinch of sacred ash into Ma’s palm
and she smears it on my forehead
above the red dot
she paints between my eyebrows each morning.
I push through the rustling curtain of women’s saris
and men’s white veshtis,
tiptoeing to see better.
A bronze statue of Shiva,
four-armed God of dance, glistens.
He balances on His right leg alone,
His left raised parallel to earth,
the crescent moon a sparkling jewel He wears
in His matted hair.
Carved high into the temple’s granite walls
are other celestial dancers.
“Pa?” I tug at my father’s shirt.
He lifts me onto his shoulders
but the sculptures are
too far away to touch.
After the crowd empties out
into the sunshine of the temple courtyard
I, alone,
slip back
into the soft blackness of the empty hall,
spot a stepladder propped against
my dancer-filled wall,
and climb. Up, up, up, to the very top.
Leaning forward, I trace
dancing feet
with my fingertips.
“What are you doing, little one?” A priest
steadies my ladder. “You don’t have to climb ladders
to reach God.
He dances within all He creates.
Come down.”
I run my fingers
along the curve
of each stone heel.
The priest’s laugh rumbles up into my ears.
“Place a hand on your chest.
Can you feel Shiva’s feet moving inside you?”
I press on my chest. Feel bony ribs. Under them, thumping,
faint echoes of a dance rhythm: thom thom thom.
Shiva outside me, gleaming in the temple sanctum.
Yet also leaping, hidden inside my body.
“God is everywhere. In every body. In everything.
He is born at different times, in different places,
with different names.
He dances in heaven as Shiva, creator of universes;
He lived on earth as Buddha,
human incarnation of compassion;
and as you can see, He moves within you.