A Time to Dance(7)

            my vertical split.

            What if I don’t “pull it off”?


I must. I will.

            I hold my pose.


Frenzied clapping breaks out,

            applause so sweet and strong I can taste it,

            sweet and strong as South Indian coffee.

            A fresh bolt of energy shoots through my veins

            as I hear the music of a crowd

            clapping just for me.





DANCING

My Body BEAUTIFUL





A judge’s voice echoes over the microphone.

            “This year’s winner

            impressed us with her flawless technique.

            She brought alive poses rarely performed.

            In honor of her speed and skillful mastery over her body,

            we present this year’s prize to

            Ms. Veda Venkat.”

            Uday anna beams. “Ten years I’ve waited for this honor. I knew you’d win.”


So dizzy with joy I feel almost off-balance,

            I return to the stage,

            where three judges line up to congratulate me.

            One of them hands me a small bronze image of Shiva dancing,

            a replica of the deity I first saw as a child

            in the temple of the dancing God.


Clutching Shiva to my chest,

            I thank the judges.

            Strangers crowd around me as I exit the stage.

            A tall, skinny boy elbows through the crowd,

            extends a hand toward mine, looking hopeful.

            Behind him, two more boys gaze awestruck

            in my direction.

            I whip around, expecting to see

            my best friend, Chandra, nearby,

            whose dimpled chin and sparkling talk

            inspire a love-struck longing

            in nearly every boy we encounter.

            Surely, these looks are meant for her.

            No one stares at me

            this way.


I don’t see Chandra anywhere.


I once read an article about beauty in a magazine.

            I measured my nose to see if it was long enough,

            if my eyes were large enough,

            if my lips were thick enough

            to be beautiful.

            They weren’t.


One of the boys stutters, “Ms. Veda, you-you’re

            —awesome.”

            Behind him, another boy echoes, “Awesome.”

            I fight to keep my lips from breaking into a silly grin.

            The eager pressure with which the boys grasp my hand

            tells me

            my graceful movements make up for

            my incorrectly proportioned face.


I can dance beauty into my body.





JOYS

of

WINNING





My best friend, Chandra, pushes through the crowd,

            slaps my back as though our team just won a cricket match.