A Time to Dance(13)

            I’d dance thakka thakka thai,

            into scents of cumin, coriander, and red chili.

            Wrap my arms around Paati’s plush body.

            At night I’d hear music

            in the buzz of hungry mosquitoes

            swarming outside my mosquito net,

            in the whir of the overhead fan

            swaying from the ceiling.


In the gray-green hospital room

            silence

            stretches.





ASHES





Light fades. Night falls.

            But darkness doesn’t shroud the sight

            of my half leg

            from my mind’s unblinking eye.


Under the sheets my hands reach

            like a tongue that can’t stop playing with a loose tooth.

            Over and over the rough bandages my fingers run,

            trying to smooth over

            reality.


In the morning I feel Paati’s hands kneading my temples.

            Not even her touch soothes me.


Murmuring a prayer,

            she places the bronze idol of Shiva I won at the competition

            on my bedside table.

            “Mukam karothi vachalam; pangum langayathe girim.”

            God’s grace moves the mute to eloquence

            and inspires the lame to climb mountains.


I glance at my dancing Shiva,

            His left leg raised parallel to the earth,

            His right leg crushing the demon of ignorance,

            His inner hands juxtaposed, palms flat,

            His outer hands

            holding aloft the fire of creation and destruction,

            and a drum

            keeping time to the music of His eternal dance.

            I try to repeat Paati’s prayer. I strain my ears to hear

            His music.


It feels like Shiva destroyed my universes of possibility,

            like He’s dancing

            on the ashes

            of my snatched-away dreams.





NAMELESS





“Veda, you’ve got a roommate,” a nurse announces.

            A woman with a mop of gray hair

            gives me a yellow-toothed smile.

            “I heard you lost your leg. How?”

            I don’t want this stuffy space invaded.

            Especially not by a chatty old woman.

            I don’t answer.

            “Talking will help you heal, you know.

            They cut my toes off. Diabetes.

            Now tell me about you.”

            I give her more silence.

            “What’s your full name, girl?

            Veda what?

            You can tell me that, at least, hmm?”

            No.