A Time to Dance Read online

  Also by Padma Venkatraman

  Island’s End

  Climbing the Stairs

  NANCY PAULSEN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Copyright © 2014 by Padma Venkatraman.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Venkatraman, Padma.

  A time to dance / Padma Venkatraman.

  pages cm

  Summary: In India, a girl who excels at Bharatanatyam dance refuses to give up after losing a leg in an accident.

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Dance—Fiction. 3. Amputees—Fiction. 4. People with disabilities—Fiction. 5. India—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.5.V46Ti 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013024244

  ISBN 978-0-698-15826-9

  Version_1

  As this book neared completion, I was struck by the story of a dancer

  —Adrianne Haslet-Davis—

  who became a below-knee amputee as a result of the Boston Marathon bombing. This work is dedicated to the courageous people I’ve been privileged to meet and those whom I’ll never be honored to know, whose spirit triumphs over terror and tragedy.

  Contents

  ALSO BY PADMA VENKATRAMAN

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  HOPING and WAITING

  SPEAKING with HANDS

  DANCE PRACTICE

  LONE PALM

  TIME

  BADGE of HONOR

  GIVING

  THE MUSIC of APPLAUSE

  DANCING My Body BEAUTIFUL

  JOYS of WINNING

  BLACK DOT

  LOST

  BACK WHEN

  SPEED

  WAKING

  EMPTINESS FILLS

  EVERYWHERE, in EVERYTHING

  ASHES

  NAMELESS

  PAIN UNCONTROLLED

  PINS, NEEDLES, PHANTOMS, and PAIN

  ALL I STILL HAVE

  FINDING My VOICE

  EXPERIMENTAL PROJECT

  LESS UGLY

  VISITORS

  STAYING AWAY

  WHEELS SHORTEN

  FORWARD

  NICKNAMES

  FAMILY DISTANCES

  MY Last VISITOR

  DISCHARGE

  RETURNING to NORMAL

  GECKOS, GHOST CRABS, and REGENERATION

  SOUNDS of LAUGHTER

  DRESSING

  CRIPPLED

  LOOKS

  NAMES

  EXPOSED

  IN the EYE

  WHO DANCED Ahead OF ME

  BEGGAR

  ACTING ANGER

  FIRST STEPS

  STUDYING GRACE

  BLUE DIAMONDS

  CRUTCH FREE

  NO Longer CENTER

  FAR from the ENVYING CIRCLE

  UNEQUAL

  NOT BEST

  SACRED Art DEFILED

  NAILS and SPEARS

  THE BEHOLDER

  VISIONS

  TO DANCE AGAIN

  GREETING GRACE

  A REAL SMILE

  SEEING BEAUTIFUL

  BOULDER

  TOUCH LOST

  ONLY Three TALENTS

  TWO MEN

  BOLDER

  SYMMETRY

  A TIME to SPEAK

  NOT ENOUGH

  BARE

  EXCHANGES

  A PARTIAL VICTORY

  AS MANY Perfect Poses AS PEOPLE

  ONLY Temporarily ABLE

  REACHING OUT

  A SENSE of NORMAL

  FEAR of FALLING

  DEMONS

  A NEW CENTER

  JUST AS WARM

  NOT EVEN an OLD WOMAN

  THE PAIN of LOSING

  THE THIRD EYE

  DRAGONS and GECKOS

  FLIGHT of FEELING

  ABSOLUTE

  NIGHT

  GHOST WHITE

  THE DANCE of ATOMS

  SEEING SHIVA

  DANCE YOGA

  INVITED

  TOAD in a LOTUS LAKE

  DIFFERENT DANCES

  SACRED WATER

  STRANGE COMFORT

  SWOLLEN

  A TIME to DANCE

  HOLDING ON

  VISITATION

  FIGHTING PHANTOMS

  THE COLOR of MUSIC

  CLOSE

  A PART

  TO STAND

  TEACHING to LEARN

  DRIVE

  SEEING I

  PRESENT

  STRONG QUIET

  PLACES of PRAYER

  SKIRT

  STRENGTH

  RED DOT

  HAUNTED

  OFFERING THANKS

  FINDING MY WAY

  A GIFT

  SHARING

  SILENCE SOUNDS

  FROM DANCER to DANCE

  MY WAY TO PRAY

  LETTING GO

  LETTERS and WORDS

  CRESCENT SMOOTH

  SKIPPING STONE

  TO TOUCH

  DANCING THANKS

  REACHING IN

  STRETCHING AHEAD

  FADING PHANTOMS

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  TEMPLE

  of the

  DANCING GOD

  Clinging to the free end of Ma’s sari,

  I follow the tired shuffle of other pilgrims’ feet

  into the cool darkness of the temple,

  where sweat-smell mingles with the fragrance of incense.

  Pa’s hand rests heavy on my curls.

  The priest drops a pinch of sacred ash into Ma’s palm

  and she smears it on my forehead

  above the red dot

  she paints between my eyebrows each morning.

  I push through the rustling curtain of women’s saris

  and men’s white veshtis,

  tiptoeing to see better.

  A bronze statue of Shiva,

  four-armed God of dance, glistens.

  He balances on His right leg alone,

  His left raised parallel to earth,

  the crescent moon a sparkling jewel He wears

  in His matted hair.

  Carved high into the temple’s granite walls

  are other celestial dancers.

  “Pa?” I tug at my father’s shirt.

  He lifts me onto his shoulders

  but the sculptures are

  too far away to touch.

  After the crowd empties out

  into the sunshine of
the temple courtyard

  I, alone,

  slip back

  into the soft blackness of the empty hall,

  spot a stepladder propped against

  my dancer-filled wall,

  and climb. Up, up, up, to the very top.

  Leaning forward, I trace

  dancing feet

  with my fingertips.

  “What are you doing, little one?” A priest

  steadies my ladder. “You don’t have to climb ladders

  to reach God.

  He dances within all He creates.

  Come down.”

  I run my fingers

  along the curve

  of each stone heel.

  The priest’s laugh rumbles up into my ears.

  “Place a hand on your chest.

  Can you feel Shiva’s feet moving inside you?”

  I press on my chest. Feel bony ribs. Under them, thumping,

  faint echoes of a dance rhythm: thom thom thom.

  Shiva outside me, gleaming in the temple sanctum.

  Yet also leaping, hidden inside my body.

  “God is everywhere. In every body. In everything.

  He is born at different times, in different places,

  with different names.

  He dances in heaven as Shiva, creator of universes;

  He lived on earth as Buddha,

  human incarnation of compassion;

  and as you can see, He moves within you.

  Now, please, come down, little one.”

  I’m halfway down the ladder when Pa and Ma rush back in.

  Pa prostrates, laying his squat body flat on the stone floor, thanking God.

  Ma thanks the priest,

  words of gratitude bursting from her like sobs.

  “Searched—the other four temples—couldn’t find her—

  so scared—what if she’d left the temple complex—

  run outside the walls—into the city—”

  As we leave, Ma’s thin fingers pinch my shoulders

  tight as tongs roasting rotis over an open flame.

  Pa scolds, “You could have burst your head

  climbing a ladder like that!”

  My head is bursting

  with images

  of stone dancers come alive, the tips of their bare toes twirling,

  with sounds

  of the tiny bells on their anklets twinkling

  with music.

  HOPING

  and

  WAITING

  I race upstairs,

  kick my sandals off outside our front door,

  burst into our apartment. “I’m in the finals!”

  My grandmother, Paati,

  surges out of the kitchen like a ship in full sail,

  her white sari dazzling

  in the afternoon light that streams through our open windows.

  I fling my arms around her.

  Drink in the spicy-sweet basil-and-aloe scent of her soap.

  Paati doesn’t say congratulations. She doesn’t need to.

  I feel her words in the warmth of her hug.

  “I knew you’d make it.” Pa plucks me

  out of Paati’s embrace into his arms.

  “Finals of what?” Ma says.

  I’ve only been talking

  about the Bharatanatyam dance competition

  for months.

  Mostly to Paati, and to Pa, but Ma’s hearing is perfect

  and we don’t live in a palace with soundproof walls.

  Paati retreats into the kitchen.

  Paati’s told me she doesn’t think it’s her place

  to interfere with her son and daughter-in-law.

  Pa’s eyes rove from Ma to me.

  He’s caught in the middle as always.

  Ma’s diamond earrings

  —the only reminder of her wealthy past—

  flash at me like angry eyes.

  “Veda, you need to study hard.

  If you don’t do well in your exams this year—”

  For once, my voice doesn’t stick in my throat. “I am studying hard.

  To be a dancer.

  I’m not planning to become an engineer. Or a doctor.”

  Or any other profession Ma finds respectable.

  Ma launches into her usual lecture. “Dancing is no career for a middle-class girl.

  You need to study something useful in college so you can get a well-paid job.”

  I sigh extra-loud.

  My dance teacher, Uday anna, isn’t rich. But

  his house is larger than ours.

  Clearly, he earns more than

  Ma at her bank job and Pa at his library.

  Ma goes on and on.

  Back when I was younger, I’d struggle to be better at school

  for Ma’s sake.

  But numbers and letters soon grew too large for me to hold

  and I grew far away from them

  and Ma grew out of patience.

  Paati places steaming sojji, my favorite snack, on our table.

  The sweet, buttery smell of cooked semolina is tempting

  but I leave the plate untouched.

  March into the bedroom Paati and I share.

  Slam the door.

  Pa knocks. Says, “Come out, Veda. Eat something.”

  “Leave her alone,” Ma says. “She knows where to find food if she’s hungry.”

  I probably shouldn’t have slammed the door.

  But Ma never even said congratulations.

  She’s never pretended my dancing made her happy.

  But never has a performance mattered more to me

  than being chosen for the finals of this competition.

  All my life, Ma’s been

  hoping

  I’ll do well at science and mathematics

  so I could end up becoming what she wanted to be:

  an engineer.

  All my life, I’ve been

  waiting

  for her to appreciate my love

  of the one thing I excel at:

  Bharatanatyam dance.

  SPEAKING

  with

  HANDS

  “Steps came to you early. Speech came late,” Paati said.

  She’d tell how she watched me pull myself up by the bars

  of my cradle at eight months,

  eager to toddle on my own two feet.

  Months before others my age, she said,

  I could shape thoughts with my fingers.

  My body wasn’t shy.

  While words stumbled in my throat

  losing their way long before they reached my lips,

  like lotus buds blossoming my hands spoke my first sentences

  shaping themselves into hasta mudras:

  the hand symbols of Indian classical dance.

  Paati said, “It was as if you remembered

  the sign language of Bharatanatyam

  from a previous life you’d lived as a dancer

  before being reincarnated as my granddaughter.”

  Paati always understood everything I said with my hands.

  DANCE

  PRACTICE

  I’m a palm tree swaying in a storm wind.

  My dance teacher

  sits cross-legged on the ground,

  tapping beats out on

  his hollow wooden block with a stick.

  I leap and land on my sure feet,

  excitement mounting as Uday anna’s rhythm speeds,

  challenging me to repeat my routine faster.

  My heels strike the ground fast as fire-sparks.

  Streams of sweat trickle down my neck.

&nbs
p; My black braid lifts into the air, then whips around my waist.

  Nothing else fills me with as much elation

  as chasing down soaring music,

  catching and pinning rhythms to the ground with my feet,

  proud as a hunter rejoicing in his skill.

  The climax brings me to the hardest pose of all:

  Balancing on my left leg, I extend my right

  upward in a vertical split.

  Then I bend my right knee, bring my right foot near my ear,

  showing how, when an earring fell off as He danced,

  Shiva picked it up with His toes

  and looped it back over His earlobe.

  Locking my breath in my chest to keep from trembling,

  I push myself to hold the pose

  for an entire eight-beat cycle.

  A familiar thrill shoots up my spine.

  I enjoy testing

  my stamina, my balance.

  Uday anna’s stick clatters to the floor. He claps.

  “Pull that off and you’re sure to win.”

  Both feet on the ground again, I pirouette and leap,

  rejoicing in the speed at which

  my body obeys my mind’s commands,

  celebrating my strong, skilled body—

  the center and source of my joy,

  the one thing I can count on,

  the one thing that never fails me.

  LONE PALM

  Kamini, my rival,

  enters the classroom as I leave.

  I extend my hand, saying, “Congratulations.

  Heard you made it to the finals, too.”

  “Thanks,” she says, sharp as a slap.

  Sweeps past me,

  ignoring my outstretched palm.

  I want to tell her I truly think she’s a wonderful dancer,

  convince her we could be friendlier though we compete.

  But as usual, the sentences I want to say

  collapse in a jumbled heap in my brain.

  I’m a lone palm tree

  towering over grassy fronds of rice in a paddy field,

  yearning to touch the sky although

  I get lonelier

  the higher I go.

  TIME

  Returning home after dancing, I trip

  on the first step

  of the shared stairwell of our apartment building,