Also by Padma Venkatraman
Island’s End
Climbing the Stairs
NANCY PAULSEN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
Copyright © 2014 by Padma Venkatraman.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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
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.
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,