Disappearing.
On the stage,
there is no dancer.
There is
only dance.
MY WAY TO PRAY
At home, bowing to my dancing Shiva,
I say silently
the words of the prayer Govinda taught me.
My hands are lips.
My body is voice.
As I shape the words
“the entire universe is His body”
an invisible hand flicks on the switch I’ve been fumbling with.
In my mind’s eye, I see my students.
See the strength, the weakness, the curve of each back,
the slope of each shoulder.
Elbows with a natural bend.
Upper bodies that jut out too far forward
as though they’re trying to race ahead of the feet.
No body perfect.
No two children the same size or shape.
But every dancing child a manifestation
of Shiva in human form.
LETTING GO
The morning of my birthday,
I ask Pa to come to the temple with me,
where I’ve gone with Paati every birthday morning
before this one.
In the vacant lot where the beggar lived,
I see a scrawny boy dressed in a filthy T-shirt.
He tears a thin roti in half,
holds the bread out
to feed a stray dog.
“Pa,” I say, “I don’t need to go to the temple.
I want to give something to that child.”
Pa looks at the boy sharing his meager meal.
At home Pa helps me pack a bag
with chappatis, mangoes, bananas.
From under her bed,
I take out Paati’s trunk,
still full with all her things.
We give the food and the trunk to the scrawny child.
“Shiva,” I say. “This is for you.”
The child looks puzzled.
“My name isn’t Shiva, but thanks for the food.”
He opens the trunk and nuzzles his cheek against a sari.
“I can use this as a sheet,” he says.
Above, I see a silver-gray cloud—
the same shade as Paati’s hair.
I let her image go.
And I watch the cloud drift
like incense smoke
rising up
high.
LETTERS
and
WORDS
Waiting at home are two envelopes addressed to me.
One is in Govinda’s slanted handwriting.
Inside it, I find three sketches:
the first of the lotus pond where we sat together,
the second
of two hands shaping the symbol for an eagle in flight,