Read A Time to Dance for Free Online Page B

feel flattered—more than flattered—by his interest.
    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.
    â€œGot those in your honor, too.”
    Posters of three dancers, all
    one-legged.
    â€œLet me introduce them to you, ma’am.” Jim points
    at a handsome man wearing a suit and shoes.
    â€œHe’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 classical 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.
    â€œSudha Chandran,” Jim says.
    â€œShe 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,
    â€œOne 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.
    â€œPaati, are you feeling unwell?”
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œGod 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.
    â€œAngry with God?” Paati says.
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I be, Paati?
    Why did He take away my leg?
    Why did He make that man so poor?
    Is God punishing us for sins we committed
    and bad Karma we built up in a past life?”
    â€œI don’t believe in a punishing God,” Paati says.
    â€œI believe in a compassionate God.
    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