A Time to Dance(25)

            Stare out the window,

            sensing innumerable eyes staring at me.

            Someone taps me on the shoulder.

            The khaki-clad bus conductor.

            He’s seen me in his bus nearly every school day.

            I wait for him to ask

            the question.

            He only says, “Good to have you back.”

            Hands me my ticket and moves on.

            I want to hug him.


The bus jerks onto the road.

            A temple elephant lumbering along in a procession

            obstructs traffic.

            I’m thankful it slows the bus down

            at least for a short while.

            Soon the bus is hurtling madly

            through crowded streets.

            I press back into my seat,

            clutching my schoolbag.

            Sweat plasters my skirt to my thighs.

            My stop feels light-years away.

            By the time we arrive, the bus is packed.

            “Let the lame girl through,” a lady shouts as I struggle to push

            through the crowd.

            She sounds as though she’s trying to be helpful.

            My face flushes

            hot with shame

            as I navigate carefully

            down the steep steps

            and out of the bus.





LOOKS





Clunking along the bleak school corridors,

            I must look as asymmetric

            as a heron balancing on one leg.

            I wish it wouldn’t take Jim so long to make my prosthesis.

            I hate announcing my arrival on crutches

            —stomp, clomp, stomp, clomp—

            loud enough to make every head turn in my direction.


When lessons are over

            everyone pours out onto the sports field.

            “You could coach us, Veda. Please? Come?” Chandra pleads.

            So I go.

            The other girls from the cricket team gather around me.

            A few mumble that they’re sorry,

            their nervous eyes politely stuck to my face,

            wary of accidentally straying too low and catching a glimpse

            of the space beneath my right knee.

            Some welcome me back in extra-bright voices,

            saying it’s nice I’m back

            though they hardly know me.

            Silent, shy, following Chandra,

            at school, I was her shadow.

            Only at dance did I shine in my own light.


Listlessly

            I listen to girls whack at the red cork ball with willow bats.


Mekha, a vicious girl, who plays so well