She must be confident we'll never compete again.

Even the other girls stare at me expectant, not jealous.

I'll show them.

I a.s.sume the basic Bharatanatyam stance: half-mandi.

Toes turned out sideways, heels slightly apart, I lower my hips, bend my knees, shape my legs into the sides of a diamond.

I raise my right foot, bring it down, raise my left foot, bring it down.

Thaiya thai, thaiya thai. In slowest speed, I can easily do the first exercise every Bharatanatyam dancer learns.

Kamini says, "Very good." The girls clap.

"Veda?" Uday anna says. "You forgot to salute the earth."

Practice or performance, every Bharatanatyam dancer must begin and end every session by apologizing to the earth, which dancers kick and stamp.

In my hurry to prove myself, I forgot to go through the motions.

"Sorry, Uday anna," I mumble, "I'll do it now."

My knees can bend enough to easily a.s.sume the half-sitting posture.

I've never yet forced them farther out-as far as they need to bend for the full-sitting posture the salutation requires.

What a fool I was not to test the limits of my flexibility before I came.

Too late now.

I lower my torso, feet sideways, heels together.

I need to force my knees to bend out with heels off the ground, balancing on tiptoe, lowering my body down all the way until my b.u.t.tocks rest on my heels.

As I lower myself, I lose my sense of center, overbalance, tumble forward, and crash-land on the ground.

"Veda!" Uday anna calls out. "Are you hurt?"

The girls cl.u.s.ter around me, echoing Uday anna's concern.

Kamini helps me up.

"Thanks," I mutter.

I try once more.

Fall, almost, except Kamini catches me in time.

"No more," Uday anna says.

Kamini turns away as though she can't bear to see me so clumsy.

Uday anna puts on his most gentle tone but some words can't be softened.

"Veda, so many of us blessed with able bodies can't meet the demands of a professional dancer's life.

Maybe for you it's time for a new dream."

My body hurts from my falls but Uday anna's words hurt more.

UNEQUAL.

Kamini follows me out of the cla.s.sroom, tears gushing down her cheeks like a tap turned on full force.

I don't need anyone's pity.

"Don't feel so sorry for me, Kamini.

I'm still your equal.

Even with one leg less."

"No." Her lip trembles. "We aren't equal.

You're a better person."

"I'll be a better dancer again, too," I say.

She doesn't seem to hear me.

She's sobbing too loudly.

I hate how she's making a scene out of my misery.

I'm the one who should be crying.

Still, it feels cruel to do nothing but watch tears wrack her body.

I reach out and pat her back until she stops shuddering.

Looking at me, she twiddles the free end of her dance sari.

After all these years of ignoring me she seems to want to start a conversation though she doesn't know how.

The skin under my leg hurts so much I'm scared I'll start crying.

I wait for her to say something.

Until I'm too tired to control my tears any longer.

Hoping she can't see them rolling down my cheeks, I hobble away as fast as my pain lets me.

NOT BEST.

I haul myself up the stairs of our apartment building, nearly blind to Shobana's waving hand nearly deaf to Mrs. Subramaniam's greetings.

Paati is asleep in her wicker chair, prayer book open on her lap.

Feeling older than Paati, I walk into our room, take off my leg, towel my limb dry.

My smiley-mouth scar looks bright red as though it's got lipstick on.

Chafed by my falls, the skin of my limb is raw.

I'll need to use crutches again until it's better.

Paati wakes up when I hobble back into the sitting room.

My voice hollow, I tell her, "Uday anna doesn't want to teach me anymore."

Paati doesn't say I told you so, you should have waited for the new leg.

Not that I'd expect her to.

She says something I expect even less.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Veda, that dance teacher of yours didn't visit your hospital once.

He's not the only Bharatanatyam teacher.

Not even the best."

It's the first time I've heard Paati say something insulting about another person.

I don't argue.

SACRED.

Art

DEFILED.

Paati lays a hand on my curls.

"Maybe you should see if Dr. Dhanam has a school."

"Dr. Dhanam?" Her name sounds vaguely familiar.

Paati has a faraway look in her eyes.

"Dr. Dhanam is a different kind of dancer.

Your thatha and I went to watch her once.

She focused on pure abhinaya-emotional expression.

A very unusual performance.

When she was done, the audience didn't clap.

Everyone was weeping. With joy.