A Time To Dance Part 2

THE MUSIC.

of

APPLAUSE.

My trembling fingers pin the free end of my dance sari over the left shoulder of my blouse.

One last time I stretch each leg out, flex and point my bare feet, wiggle my toes to ease tense muscles.

Every seat in the auditorium is filled.

The air tw.a.n.gs with expectation like a veena's taut string.

Last of twelve compet.i.tors, I'm hiding behind the wings, waiting.

I watch Kamini finish up her routine.

She twirls in a tight circle and comes to a stop, bare feet to the sides, knees bent outward, holding a diamond-shaped s.p.a.ce between her legs.

As Kamini walks offstage, Uday anna's mouth shapes the harsh words "Not fast enough,"

though she looked flawless to me.

Kamini's lips quiver, but I have no time to worry about her.

I'm next.

The velvet curtain, crimson as the thick lines of alta painted on my feet, shudders apart.

Hands at my waist, I march out keeping perfect time to the crisp, clear commands of Uday anna's cymbals.

The rows of bra.s.s bells on my anklets vibrate to the rhythm of the mridangam drummer.

My skin tingles as I step into the music, give in to the icy thrill of pleasure that spreads through me whenever I dance, the pleasure of leaping into a cool lake on a sweltering day.

The music swells and strengthens like a flood.

Waves of song pulse through my body.

I love portraying Shiva, who, through the steps of His eternal dance, creates and destroys universes.

I whirl across the stage, stop to balance on one leg, holding the other behind me with both arms, my body bent outward, bow-shaped.

A burst of applause encourages me.

Steps quickening, I build to the climax.

A rope of anxiety and excitement twists in my stomach as I a.s.sume the most daring pose in my routine: my vertical split.

What if I don't "pull it off"?

I must. I will.

I hold my pose.

Frenzied clapping breaks out, applause so sweet and strong I can taste it, sweet and strong as South Indian coffee.

A fresh bolt of energy shoots through my veins as I hear the music of a crowd clapping just for me.

DANCING.

My Body BEAUTIFUL

A judge's voice echoes over the microphone.

"This year's winner impressed us with her flawless technique.

She brought alive poses rarely performed.

In honor of her speed and skillful mastery over her body, we present this year's prize to Ms. Veda Venkat."

Uday anna beams. "Ten years I've waited for this honor. I knew you'd win."

So dizzy with joy I feel almost off-balance, I return to the stage, where three judges line up to congratulate me.

One of them hands me a small bronze image of Shiva dancing, a replica of the deity I first saw as a child in the temple of the dancing G.o.d.

Clutching Shiva to my chest, I thank the judges.

Strangers crowd around me as I exit the stage.

A tall, skinny boy elbows through the crowd, extends a hand toward mine, looking hopeful.

Behind him, two more boys gaze awestruck in my direction.

I whip around, expecting to see my best friend, Chandra, nearby, whose dimpled chin and sparkling talk inspire a love-struck longing in nearly every boy we encounter.

Surely, these looks are meant for her.

No one stares at me this way.

I don't see Chandra anywhere.

I once read an article about beauty in a magazine.

I measured my nose to see if it was long enough, if my eyes were large enough, if my lips were thick enough to be beautiful.

They weren't.

One of the boys stutters, "Ms. Veda, you-you're -awesome."

Behind him, another boy echoes, "Awesome."

I fight to keep my lips from breaking into a silly grin.

The eager pressure with which the boys grasp my hand tells me my graceful movements make up for my incorrectly proportioned face.

I can dance beauty into my body.

JOYS.

of

WINNING.

My best friend, Chandra, pushes through the crowd, slaps my back as though our team just won a cricket match.

She pulls my hand up into the air.

I let it linger there.

We were about eight years old and I was standing at the edge of the cricket field when Chandra's bat lofted the red cork ball in my direction.

Eyes scrunched up against the glaring sun, I raced after it.

Felt the ball's leathery hide in my palm.

Raising an index finger, I signaled she was out.

Chandra ran over. I was scared she was angry.

"Great catch, Veda." She pumped my hand.

I couldn't believe Chandra- good at everything yet also popular- knew my name.

Chandra slid an arm across my shoulders.

"From now on," she said, "you're on my team."

Playing cricket with Chandra, the sun baking my black curls until they feel as hot as a piece of fire-toasted chappati bread, I like the sweet swish of the ball landing in my hands, the crack of my bat sending the ball high into the sky.

But neither sound fills me the way dance does.

Winning at cricket doesn't compare with the joy of winning at dance.

A joy that makes my heart beat to a brisk, victorious tempo: tha ka tha ki ta tha ka tha ki ta.

A joy that makes rhythmic music swirl in my ears.

BLACK DOT.