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A Time to Dance(4)

By:Padma Venkatraman






DANCE

PRACTICE





I’m a palm tree swaying in a storm wind.


My dance teacher

            sits cross-legged on the ground,

            tapping beats out on

            his hollow wooden block with a stick.


I leap and land on my sure feet,

            excitement mounting as Uday anna’s rhythm speeds,

            challenging me to repeat my routine faster.

            My heels strike the ground fast as fire-sparks.

            Streams of sweat trickle down my neck.

            My black braid lifts into the air, then whips around my waist.


Nothing else fills me with as much elation

            as chasing down soaring music,

            catching and pinning rhythms to the ground with my feet,

            proud as a hunter rejoicing in his skill.


The climax brings me to the hardest pose of all:

            Balancing on my left leg, I extend my right

            upward in a vertical split.

            Then I bend my right knee, bring my right foot near my ear,

            showing how, when an earring fell off as He danced,

            Shiva picked it up with His toes

            and looped it back over His earlobe.


Locking my breath in my chest to keep from trembling,

            I push myself to hold the pose

            for an entire eight-beat cycle.

            A familiar thrill shoots up my spine.

            I enjoy testing

            my stamina, my balance.


Uday anna’s stick clatters to the floor. He claps.

            “Pull that off and you’re sure to win.”


Both feet on the ground again, I pirouette and leap,

            rejoicing in the speed at which

            my body obeys my mind’s commands,

            celebrating my strong, skilled body—

            the center and source of my joy,

            the one thing I can count on,

            the one thing that never fails me.





LONE PALM





Kamini, my rival,

            enters the classroom as I leave.

            I extend my hand, saying, “Congratulations.

            Heard you made it to the finals, too.”


“Thanks,” she says, sharp as a slap.

            Sweeps past me,

            ignoring my outstretched palm.


I want to tell her I truly think she’s a wonderful dancer,

            convince her we could be friendlier though we compete.

            But as usual, the sentences I want to say

            collapse in a jumbled heap in my brain.


I’m a lone palm tree

            towering over grassy fronds of rice in a paddy field,

            yearning to touch the sky although

            I get lonelier

            the higher I go.





TIME





Returning home after dancing, I trip

            on the first step

            of the shared stairwell of our apartment building,

            one of thirty identical concrete high-rises built