A Time to Dance(8)

            She pulls my hand up into the air.

            I let it linger there.


We were about eight years old

            and I was standing at the edge of the cricket field

            when Chandra’s bat lofted the red cork ball

            in my direction.

            Eyes scrunched up against the glaring sun, I raced after it.

            Felt the ball’s leathery hide in my palm.

            Raising an index finger, I signaled she was out.

            Chandra ran over. I was scared she was angry.

            “Great catch, Veda.” She pumped my hand.

            I couldn’t believe Chandra—

            good at everything yet also popular—

            knew my name.

            Chandra slid an arm across my shoulders.

            “From now on,” she said, “you’re on my team.”


Playing cricket with Chandra,

            the sun baking my black curls

            until they feel as hot

            as a piece of fire-toasted chappati bread,

            I like the sweet swish of the ball landing in my hands,

            the crack of my bat sending the ball high into the sky.

            But neither sound fills me the way dance does.

            Winning at cricket doesn’t compare

            with the joy of winning at dance.

            A joy that makes my heart beat

            to a brisk, victorious tempo:

            tha ka tha ki ta

            tha ka tha ki ta.

            A joy that makes

            rhythmic music swirl in my ears.





BLACK DOT





The crowd parts to let Pa through.

            He throws his arms around me.

            Says, “Splendid, simply splendid.”


Ma says, “Congratulations.”

            For a brief moment I hope for more, but that stiff word

            is all

            she gives me.


Paati presses her wrinkled cheek next to mine. Whispers,

            “You’ll have other chances to win over your ma.”

            Ma forces a smile. I return it.

            Paati’s right. Already, Ma’s at least trying.

            And my career’s only begun.


Ma’s tight face is like the small black dot

            dancers paint on their left cheeks to ward off the evil eye:

            enough only to blemish my joy for a second,

            too tiny to take away from the thrilling certainty

            of a future filled with success.





LOST





After waving Chandra and my family good-bye,

            I return to bask in Uday anna’s praise,

            speak to the judges, and answer reporters’ questions.

            I pose for photographs

            until my eyes hurt from the sea of flashing cameras.


Hours later, changed out of my dance clothes,