A Time to Dance(40)

            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—