A Time to Dance(5)

            to house lower-middle-income families:

            teachers, accountants, librarians, bank tellers, clerks.


Mrs. Subramaniam, who lives in the apartment below ours,

            calls out from her open door, “Careful!

            You don’t want to twist your ankle.”

            Shobana, her youngest daughter—

            who’s a little older than me—waves.

            I nod at them, too tired to move my tongue.


When we were younger

            and Shobana’s now-married sisters lived at home,

            I’d see them at play in the street, running and shouting.

            Mrs. Subramaniam would come upstairs and say, “Veda, go out.

            Join their fun.”

            “Soon,” I’d promise.

            But I preferred to stay inside, dancing alone,

            tiptoeing, twirling,

            feeling as light as a jasmine’s white petal

            as my feet flitted across the floor

            and time slipped away . . .

            Too happy to stop

            until darkness fell

            and the street was empty.





BADGE

of

HONOR





Paati’s sitting cross-legged on the floor

            in front of our household altar.

            When she sees me, she stops chanting

            and puts her prayer books away.

            My head pounds

            like it’s the ground beneath a dancer’s feet,

            my shoulders hurt from holding my arms upright for hours,

            my thighs ache.

            Paati gets a bowl of pungent sesame oil.

            She brushes back the wet curls that cling to my forehead

            and massages the dark oil into my scalp.


“I’ve got pain in muscles I didn’t know existed.”

            Paati knows I’m not complaining.

            Pain is part of the path to success.

            Pain is the passion

            of muscles burning to be best,

            the flame that rose within me

            when I conquered my vertical split,

            awaking a store of strength

            lying unseen beneath my brown skin.

            Pain is proof

            of my hard work,

            proof of my love for dance.





GIVING





I love seeing happy creases form around Paati’s eyes

            when she watches me dance.

            She leans forward, her wicker chair creaks,

            her body sways,

            attentive as a snake

            following the motion of a snake charmer’s pipe.


Though I’m still tired, I say,

            “Want to see what I practiced today?”

            Before Ma and Pa return, I want to give back to Paati