over the rest of my classmates.
A little girl looks up at me. “You’re so big!
Why’re you in this class?”
While I wonder how to react,
Govinda states matter-of-factly
that I lost a leg in an accident,
that I have a new one I’m learning to dance with.
“But we’re not here to chatter, children.
We’re here to learn Bharatanatyam. Right?” he says.
“Right!” Their attention shifts back to him.
“We begin every dance session with a prayer,” Govinda says.
Uday anna’s class never began or ended with prayers.
“Aangikam bhuvanam yasya; Vaachikam sarvavaangmayam;
Aahaaryam Chandrathaaraadhi;
Tham Namah Saathvikam Shivam.”
He who resides within every being in the universe;
who speaks the universal language;
whose ornaments are heavenly spheres;
Him we worship,
Shiva, the serene one.
Next, Govinda demonstrates
the dancer’s apology to Mother Earth.
With ease,
the rest of the class imitates his movements.
Palms on the wall for support,
I manage to follow them,
my pose imperfect, but not too noticeably different.
We begin the first exercise, hands on hips,
knees bent, feet to the sides,
raising each foot off the ground and bringing it down,
thaiya thai, thaiya thai.
Govinda’s voice fills the room.
“Empty yourselves of everything
except good thoughts.”
My eyes fix themselves
on the feet rising and stamping the earth so effortlessly.
It’s hard not to grudge the ease with which the others move.
I’m not sure I can empty myself of wishing
for those able bodies I don’t own.
TOUCH
LOST
Pa, Ma, Paati, Chandra, all ask,
“How does the new leg
feel?”
I don’t point out
their question misses a point:
Even this new leg
doesn’t
feel.
I won’t ever feel
five of my toes,
my ankle,
my instep,
my heel.
My right foot will never tell me if the floor is
wet/dry,
hot/cold,
flat/sloping,
rough/smooth,
bumpy/slippery.