A Time to Dance(88)

            if someone prays?

            I’m not sure who or what there is out there we pray to

            but I doubt things work that way.”


“So you forgive me?” Kamini asks.

            “Sure.” I shrug.

            “Thanks,” she says,

            but her voice is hesitant, like she’s having trouble believing me.


“Kamini? I’m still dancing.”

            “You—you are? Bharatanatyam?”

            “Yes. Bharatanatyam.”


“Thank God. Thank God. Veda, next time you compete,

            I hope you win, I swear.”


“Kamini, to me, dance isn’t about competitions any longer.

            And it might sound crazy,

            but I’m not upset about the accident anymore.

            The accident made me a different kind of dancer.”


Kamini shakes her head like she doesn’t understand.

            But I don’t know how to explain

            that my love for dance is deeper.

            That dance feels more meaningful now.

            So I just give her hand a quick squeeze.

            And she says, “I’m so glad you stopped by.

            Thanks for taking the time to make me feel better.”





TO TOUCH





Sitting in a chair with my students crowding around me,

            I take my leg off.

            Let them touch it.

            As I tell them about my accident

            even Uma inches forward.


“My old teacher didn’t think I could dance again.

            But dance isn’t about who you are on the outside.

            It’s about how you feel inside.”

            I place my palms together in front of me,

            symbolizing the two leaves of a closed door.

            Move them apart, slowly, opening the door.

            “In class, you need to shut out

            sad thoughts and mean words.

            So dance can let you

            enter another world.

            A world where you feel Shiva inside you.

            Where you grow beautiful and strong and good,

            because Shiva is goodness and strength and beauty.”


We begin to dance.

            Uma’s eyes follow me around the classroom.

            I should correct her.

            I should direct her gaze toward her fingertips.

            I don’t.

            Because Uma’s scarf is loose around her shoulders.

            Because when it slithers to the floor,

            she doesn’t stoop to pick it up.

            Because head erect, chin lifted,

            she’s joined the very front row

            and she’s giving me an uncovered smile.





DANCING

THANKS





After the children trickle out,

            I go outside and