A Time To Dance Part 12

I want to say how deeply his care and dedication touch me.

Instead, all I do is sneeze from the dust Jim is stirring up.

Jim motions at a wall.

"Got those in your honor, too."

Posters of three dancers, all one-legged.

"Let me introduce them to you, ma'am." Jim points at a handsome man wearing a suit and shoes.

"He's an African-American tap dancer.

They called him Peg Leg Bates. He danced with a wooden leg. Way back in the 1920s and '30s."

Next, Jim shows me an Indian man named Nityananda, dancing a cla.s.sical style similar to Bharatanatyam.

Nityananda balances on one leg, his residual limb hidden beneath the graceful drapes of his white veshti, his upper body naked except for his golden dance jewels, his arms raised, palms together above his head, eyes closed.

But it's the third dancer off whom I can't take my eyes: a dark-haired, round-faced Indian lady.

"Sudha Chandran," Jim says.

"She danced your own beloved Bharatanatyam with a simple, inexpensive artificial limb created in India: the Jaipur foot.

The prosthesis I saw on my first trip to India that inspired me to design artificial limbs.

We'll be making you a far more modern leg with greater flexibility and range of motion."

I dream of my picture hanging next to Sudha Chandran's on Jim's wall.

As if he can read my mind, Jim says, "One day, kiddo, I'll add your poster to my collection."

I love hearing the pride in his tone, love his certainty, love how he hears my unspoken words.

BEGGAR.

Paati and I go to the Shiva temple near our home.

She walks slower than usual.

We pause in front of a small vacant lot so she can catch her breath.

"Paati, are you feeling unwell?"

"Just age catching up with me," she says.

An old beggar, almost bent in two, shuffles out of a ragged tent in one corner of the lot.

He holds out hands skinny as a chicken's feet.

Paati drops a coin into his palms.

"G.o.d bless you," he says to her.

Then he turns to me. "And you, too, so you aren't a cripple in your next life."

Outside the temple wall, Paati takes off her slippers.

I don't.

I'm not sure I want to limp in.

"Angry with G.o.d?" Paati says.

"Why shouldn't I be, Paati?

Why did He take away my leg?

Why did He make that man so poor?

Is G.o.d punishing us for sins we committed and bad Karma we built up in a past life?"

"I don't believe in a punishing G.o.d," Paati says.

"I believe in a compa.s.sionate G.o.d.

To me, Karma isn't about divine reward or retribution.

Karma is about making wise choices to create a better future.

It's taking responsibility for your actions.

Karma helps me see every hurdle as a chance to grow into a stronger, kinder soul.

When I was widowed, I was angry and scared but I used my anger to act braver than I felt.

Everyone believed my act and soon I believed it, too.

I truly became a brave and strong teacher.

Maybe when you feel angry, you should try pretending you're onstage, let anger fuel you into acting a part from a dance-story, a part that could help you."

I leave my lonely slipper next to Paati's pair and follow her.

Inside the temple, the scent of sacred camphor mixes with the acrid smell of bat droppings.

My eyes flit to the dark corners of the cavernous ceiling, where bats hang upside down.

There are no dancers on this temple's walls.

Here, even Shiva stands still.

Paati surrenders herself to prayer, neck bent, eyes closed.

Sensing Paati's conviction He exists, I feel some comfort.

But I wish I could find a way to worship that would fulfill me, as Paati's firm faith in prayer seems to fill and strengthen her.

For a moment, my childhood memory of the deity in the temple of the dancing G.o.d blazes so fiercely I feel the heat of the flames He holds in one of His four arms.

I miss the blissful ecstasy of the dancing Shiva I saw.

Whose music I heard as a child.

ACTING ANGER.

At the bus stop, I hold my head high.

I'm not a bride of long ago being forced into marriage with someone she doesn't know.

I'm not a widow of long ago whose world is circ.u.mscribed to a circle at her feet.

I'm the granddaughter of a woman who was brave.

Who used her anger.

Who told me to treat the world as my stage.

I hold myself as straight as I can on crutches.

Pretend I'm the legendary Queen Kaikeyi, whose strength in battle impressed King Dasharatha so much he begged for her hand in marriage.

I stare down the first nosy stranger who questions me.

He's a lowly subject of the kingdom I rule.

The bus is my royal chariot.

I return every curious glance with my imperial glare.

No one dares pester me.

On my way out of the bus, I poke through the crowd with my crutches.

The old woman who sits up front jerks her chin at me.

"You there. Girl.

When are you going to tell us how you lost your leg?"

My regal stance must not scare everybody.

I bare my teeth in a too-wide grin.

"Crocodile bit it off."

My sarcasm is lost on her.

She bends toward me.

"How exactly did that happen?"

"Like this." I thrust my face next to hers, open my mouth and snap it shut. Crocodiles don't growl, but I roar, "Grrrr."

The woman shrieks and a ripple of laughter spreads as I stride down my royal staircase.

Maybe I was mean. But if it's won me peace, it's worth it.

Paati's right. It's all a matter of how you deal with things.

And Chandra's right.

I'm strong. Even if my body is weaker.

My crutches tap out a victory march.

I strut, tired but triumphant, toward school.