A Time to Dance(67)

“Dance is a form of yoga. Natya yoga,” he says.

            “Marry your movement with your breath.

            Rest your palms on mine.” He extends his hands toward me,

            his palms beneath mine,

            offering gentle support.


I discover it isn’t easy to dance so slowly.

            If anything, it’s harder than going fast.

            When I go slow, every asymmetry is magnified.

            “Veda? Don’t worry about how you look.

            About anything.”


Breath for deep breath, I match Govinda.

            Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

            We breathe as one.

            Our paired breath is the only sound in the room.


“Some of us meditate through movement,” Govinda says.

            “Meditation isn’t about pushing your body,

            it’s about respecting it,

            the way you’d respect

            every other space within which God dwells.”


My breath doesn’t race

            like it used to when I danced fast and furious.

            There’s no rush of blood to my head.

            No gush of excitement in my chest.

            Dancing slowly makes a new feeling

            of joy enter my body.

            A joy that seems longer lasting

            than the bubbles of delight that rose within me

            when I danced in the past.


As I relax, I sense how tightly I’d reeled in my chest,

            holding myself as tensely as a warrior queen,

            charging into battle,

            weighted down by armor.


I feel

            Govinda peeling

            my armor away.





INVITED





After dance rehearsal, Radhika invites me

            to her birthday party.

            “I live next door to Govinda.

            He’ll be there,” she says.

            A pang of jealousy pricks me like a needle

            but she adds, as if to reassure me, “He’s like my brother.

            We’ve been neighbors since we were three.”

            I feel relieved,

            until she says, “I’ve never seen him so crazy

            about any other girl.”

            He was crazy about other girls? Who? I can’t help feeling

            another jab of envy.


“Party?” Pa rolls the word in his mouth

            when I ask permission to go. “Party? Girls only?”

            “Only a few boys. From the dance class. Please?”

            I don’t remember begging for anything else.

            Ma tells Pa, “It’s during the day.

            At a girl’s home. Her parents will be there.

            And that nice boy, Govinda, whom we met.

            Of course she should go.”