A Time to Dance(86)

            the third of a boy and a girl flying a kite.

            He writes:

            Dear Veda,

            Happy birthday.

            Love,

            Govinda.

            My feelings leap and plunge like waves.

            Plunge because his message is so short.

            Leap because he remembered

            and cared enough

            to draw scenes of the times

            our togetherness felt magical.

            Stroking his signature, I reread it twice.

            He called me dear. He signed love.

            Does he call everyone “dear”?

            Always sign with “love”?


I pluck up my courage and write Govinda a note.

            Dear Govinda,

            Thanks for the birthday wishes.

            Let’s talk sometime?

            Maybe we can meet at the stage beneath the banyan tree after my class, some evening when you can take a break from studies?

            Love,

Veda


I read my note aloud to test

            whether it’s enough or too little or too much.

            Trying to stop worrying what Govinda will think of it,

            I drop it in the mailbox.


The other card is from my old rival, Kamini.

            “Veda, Many happy returns of the day, Kamini.”

            Kamini, whom I’ve almost forgotten,

            remembers my birthday.

            Kamini, whom I’ve hardly thought of,

            thinks of me.

            She wishes me well even though the last time we met

            I was rude and left her crying

            in the middle of the road.

            Looking at her card, I feel self-centered.

            Childish.

            Anything but a year older.

            I start writing Kamini a letter.

            Crumple the paper, toss it away.

            Look at her address, scrawled on the envelope.

            Sometime after my birthday,

            I’ll go to her home and tell her I’m sorry.





CRESCENT SMOOTH





Pa and Ma have invited Radhika and Chandra over

            in the evening for a not-so-surprise

            birthday party.

            Pa’s bought a cake and decorated the front room.

            Ma’s cooked dinner.

            I’ve prepared our entertainment:

            mixed henna powder with hot lemon juice

            so we can paint henna tattoos on our skin.


I ask if I may invite another guest.

            “Sure,” Pa says. “Even a boy.”

            “Your friend Govinda?” Ma suggests.

            I shake my head.


I change into the blue batik skirt that ends above my knee