A Time To Dance Part 29

In the over-cooled air of Radhika's parents' mansion, after my hot, dusty bus ride, I s.h.i.+ver.

My loose kurti s.h.i.+rt and long salwar trousers look frumpy compared to the tight tops and short skirts every other girl seems to be wearing.

And I feel flat-footed as they tower over me in high heels that clip-clop across the marble floor.

I want to run out the carved front door at which I left my slippers the way I would at any normal Indian home, instead of keeping them on like the others have as though we're in some hotel.

My naked toes curl and dig into my foot.

I feel uglier and more out of place than a warty toad stuck in a lake full of lotuses.

DIFFERENT DANCES.

"Veda! I was waiting for you."

Govinda offers me the warmth of his hand and I take it.

He leads me up a sweep of stairs into a sun-soaked hall where music's playing and all the furniture's pushed against walls.

Radhika spots me and gives me a hug.

"Thanks so much for coming."

She looks lovely in a curve-hugging dress and high-heeled sandals, her dimpled cheeks accented with rouge.

Even her toes look perfect- painted with a soft pink nail polish.

"Dance?" Govinda asks me.

"Don't know how," I say.

Radhika giggles. "You don't know how to dance?"

"Not to this music, I don't."

"Good thing your teacher is here." Radhika gives me a playful shove. "Lesson time, Veda."

Govinda pulls me to the middle of the room.

"Put your arms on my shoulders.

Now move. With me."

I sense where he wants me to go through the tensing and easing of his muscles.

It feels like learning a new language.

I remember daydreaming of dancing this way with Jim.

My stomach clenches with guilt.

But only for a moment.

Jim feels long ago and far away.

I feel the way I did when my cracked ribs finally healed: delighted to discover there's no longer any pain in my chest.

"Something wrong?" Govinda says. "Did I step on your foot?"

"If you did, it was the foot that doesn't hurt," I say.

He smiles.

Dazzling as polished topaz, the tiny gold flecks in Govinda's eyes catch and toss sunlight.

SACRED.

WATER.

Paati's tortured breathing wakes me.

A cool predawn breeze s.h.i.+vers in through our window but sweat lathers Paati's forehead.

She mumbles something, her words slurred, her eyes unfocused.

"Pa! Ma! Come quickly!"

I grab my crutches, then, realizing I need to use my hands, I get my leg on instead and hurry to fetch the small sealed pot filled with water from the sacred Ganga river.

A copper pot that's sat in a corner of our household altar for as long as I can remember.

Waiting for a time of death.

I know Paati will want a drink of this water from the holiest of rivers.

She believes it will help wash away her sins.

Though I don't believe she sinned in this life, I break open the seal and dash back to our bedroom, Ganga water slos.h.i.+ng.

Paati's drawn cheeks crease into a faint smile.

For a moment her eyes clear.

Her lips part.

I splash some water into her mouth.

She swallows.

My arms tremble.

I pour an unsteady stream on her tongue.

She lifts a hand as if to touch my cheek but her hand falls back on her chest.

Her lips close.

The last of the water spills on her chin and dribbles down her neck.

Ma leans forward.

Shuts Paati's eyelids.

Slides her arms around Pa.

Pa covers his face with his hands.

STRANGE COMFORT.

My body feels heavy but I go to Pa and stroke his shaking shoulders.

When the heart-shaped leaves of the pipul tree outside our window start sifting through the rays of the rising sun, Ma leaves the room.

I hear her on the phone, telling people Paati's gone.

I stay with Pa.

Hug him tight.

Feel his tears wet my curls as he cries into my hair.

"Paati would have wanted to die this way," I tell him. "Quietly.

At home. In her bed. The three of us close by."

He nods, still hunched over.

Finally, he says, "I didn't think of the Ganga water.

I'm glad you remembered."

Tears well up within me but they can't find their way out.

Day breaks in through the window.

A bucket of gold melting from the sky.

Visitors gather on the sitting room floor in a circle: the Subramaniams and our other neighbors; three old students of Paati's; Pa's and Ma's colleagues; members of Pa's extended family.

Chandra arrives with her grandma, parents, and sisters.

I lean my head against Chandra's shoulder.

Still, I'm unable to weep.

People speak about Paati's kindness, her helpfulness, her wonderful cooking, how brave she was, how unusual a widow for her time, how her firm faith inspired them.

One of Paati's old students says, "She taught us not only in cla.s.s, but also by setting us an example of how to act in our lives."

Mrs. Subramaniam says, "Your paati treated everyone so lovingly I'm sure her soul doesn't need to be reborn in the world.

She'll now be united with G.o.d."

Listening to stranger after stranger speak of Paati with love and admiration, I begin to understand how Gautami took comfort in the tales of strangers after she lost her son.

The strangers' presence feels warm as a blanket.