I feel almost happy. I show him the red skin of my residual limb.
Jim whistles but he doesn’t tell me how stupid I was.
I apologize. “I know I should’ve waited longer
but I tried dancing.
My knee wouldn’t give enough.
It was so inflexible.
I fell when I tried full-mandi.”
“You mean the pose in which
you lower your body all the way down
until you’re sitting on your heels
with your legs folded under you
balancing on your toes with your knees to the sides?”
I nod, impressed at Jim’s knowledge.
Hoping I don’t sound whiny, I tell him,
“I can’t dance without assuming that posture.”
“Don’t panic, kiddo. You know I’ve been reading up
on what your art demands of the body.”
He waves at his bookshelf.
“You’re giving me
just the kind of feedback I need
to adjust this trial limb.
And I’m going to make you a final prosthesis
that lets you sit cross-legged on the floor.
That’s my challenge.
Your challenge is to
grind that fool’s memory into the dust
under your dancing heels
and find a new dance teacher
who sees how special you are.”
VISIONS
Jim saying I’m special
makes me feel brave enough to, with Chandra’s help,
look up the dancer Paati admired—Dr. Dhanam.
“Great!” Chandra cries triumphantly.
She reads off the computer screen
a long list of Dr. Dhanam’s accomplishments.
“Doctorate in classical dance, performed all over the world,
on the advisory board of practically every
Indian college dance program,
even some American universities.
Gave up performing years back.
Says she’ll spend the rest of her life teaching.
Runs a dance school on her gorgeous home estate.
Perfect.”
“Chandra, what if—if—she says no?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Chandra says.
I look at the photograph of Dr. Dhanam.
Pointed chin, sharp nose,
arms triangulating over her head, elbows angled,
palms together.
All angles, corners, straight edges.
Except her eyes—
soft as velvety moss on a rock face.
Her face glows—ecstatic, blissful—