I try it on.
When they’re side by side and compared closely,
my feet do look different. But no audience
could tell them apart if they saw me from a distance—onstage.
I press down on the toe.
When I ease off, I feel a springiness to the foot,
a push, giving me a faint pulse of energy back.
Almost a response.
“I love it!”
Jim grins. “Amazing, huh? That foot’s durable, too.
Should last a couple of years. Won’t wear out too quickly.”
“Wear out?”
“Don’t look so worried, kiddo.
The project will provide replacements.
Your foot will wear out
the way your shoes wear out.
No foot lasts a lifetime.”
Except the ones we’re born with.
Usually.
“Anything I can’t do with this leg?”
I want him to say one word:
No.
Jim launches into a list.
“. . . can’t wear high heels . . .
. . . can tiptoe only if knees are bent . . .
. . . can’t flex and point the foot . . .
but you’ll be able to dance Bharatanatyam.
A below-knee amputee
with faith in herself
is two-legged, not one-legged,
as far as I’m concerned.
“Now, ma’am, would you try out a few dance poses, please?
I want to make sure the fit’s perfect.”
Assuming the basic half-sitting pose
—feet splayed, knees out to the sides,
legs bent like the edges of a diamond—
I move my feet one at a time, slowly,
then at second speed,
then speeding up to third and fastest speed.
“Beautiful,” Jim says.
My heart races.
The naked admiration in his voice
makes me feel grown up.
But then Jim
squats and taps
my unfeeling limb.
“Beautiful,” he repeats. “Beautiful engineering,
beautiful design,
if I do say so myself.”
BOULDER
Twice the age and size
of every other beginner in Govinda’s classroom,
I feel as out of place as a boulder
brought down by the Ganga glacier
from the heights of the Himalayas
and abandoned on the river plain.
By the back wall of the sun-drenched classroom,
I skulk.
But I can’t hide how I tower