hands on hips. “I’m eight and a half.”
“Namaskaram,” I say, as seriously as I’d greet any adult.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Leela.”
The entire cast surrounds us.
A pretty girl who looks my age, though a lot shorter,
with dimpled cheeks and large eyes,
extends her hand in friendship.
“I’m Radhika,” she says. “Govinda’s neighbor.”
After years of being envied at my old dance class,
after weeks of being whispered about at my school,
I’m encircled
by welcoming smiles.
JUST AS WARM
When I tell them I’ll be onstage soon
(although with many others, playing just two tiny roles),
Chandra whoops,
Paati wraps me in her plush arms,
Pa lifts me a foot off the ground,
and
Ma
gives me a hug.
Not nearly as soft as Paati’s
but just as warm.
NOT EVEN
an
OLD WOMAN
My first part in the play should be easy.
All I have to do is hobble onstage with a cane.
But I don’t even play an old woman well enough
to please Dhanam akka.
“Buddha was born a prince,” she says. “It was prophesied
He could rule the whole world.
Yet when He saw your plight,
He gave up His entire kingdom,
His wealth, His power,
His family.
You made Him yearn to seek a way
to end all human suffering.
Your role in the play represents the pain of all humanity.
The sight of you—poverty-stricken,
overcome by age and illness—
turned Buddha from a mere man
into a reincarnation of God.”
According to Paati’s story there were
four sights that moved Buddha:
one old person, one afflicted with illness, a corpse,
a monk whose face glowed peace.
But I don’t correct akka.
My second role is even harder.
In my second role, I am Gautami,
a woman who came to the Buddha
with her dead son in her arms,
begging Him to bring her son back to life.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Buddha asked her
to bring Him a mustard seed from the home
of a family that had never suffered.
Gautami left her son’s body at His feet