Jim saying I'm special makes me feel brave enough to, with Chandra's help, look up the dancer Paati admired-Dr. Dhanam.

"Great!" Chandra cries triumphantly.

She reads off the computer screen a long list of Dr. Dhanam's accomplishments.

"Doctorate in cla.s.sical dance, performed all over the world, on the advisory board of practically every

Indian college dance program,

even some American universities.

Gave up performing years back.

Says she'll spend the rest of her life teaching.

Runs a dance school on her gorgeous home estate.

Perfect."

"Chandra, what if-if-she says no?"

"There's only one way to find out," Chandra says.

I look at the photograph of Dr. Dhanam.

Pointed chin, sharp nose, arms triangulating over her head, elbows angled, palms together.

All angles, corners, straight edges.

Except her eyes- soft as velvety moss on a rock face.

Her face glows-ecstatic, blissful- the way saints' faces must look when granted divine visions.

For the first time since the accident, I hear the faint echo of a dancing rhythm.

Thaiya thai. Thaiya thai.

TO DANCE.

AGAIN.

Dr. Dhanam agrees to interview me although I explain I'm one-legged.

Hope coils inside me like a wound spring as I walk up the shady drive that leads from the gate past an open-air stage beneath a banyan tree to a three-story mansion on her estate.

A maid shows me into a hall.

I sit waiting on the edge of an antique chair, my foot tracing circles on the cold, hard floor.

Dr. Dhanam enters.

Her eyes take me in without comment or pity.

Thank you, I think. "Namaskaram," I say, pressing my palms together, bowing my head low in greeting, grat.i.tude, and relief.

"Namaskaram, Veda. You may call me Dhanam akka.

You want to join my dance school? Why?"

"Ma'am-Dhanam akka- I am-I mean I was-I mean I want to be a dancer," I stammer.

"I started twelve years ago.

Performed onstage for a while.

Until I had an accident- after I won a Bharatanatyam compet.i.tion-"

"Bharatanatyam is not about winning or losing," she interrupts.

"Compet.i.tion distracts dancers into thinking this art is about them.

Art should be about something larger and deeper than self."

"But-didn't Shiva Himself compete at dance?

With His wife?"

Akka's thin eyebrows arch up.

She seems surprised I'm contradicting her. But also pleased.

She says, "Good to have a young one stand up to me every now and then.

But you have forgotten, or perhaps not been taught, the inner meaning of this parable.

The compet.i.tion-between Shiva and His wife- represents the longing our limited human souls have to understand and unite with the divine soul."

Her tone is kind enough but I feel foolish that I missed knowing the deeper meaning of a story I performed.

"So, you want to relearn dance. But why come here, Veda?

Why not return to your old teacher?"

"He didn't want me back." I hope I don't sound too angry at him.

"I see." She waits for me to say more.

Her silver toe-rings tap impatiently on the floor.

Thai thai. Thai thai.

The sound is a s.n.a.t.c.h of music, a dance rhythm, carrying me back in time.

I see a little girl on her father's shoulders, yearning to touch the feet of divine dancers carved into temple walls.

I see her on a stepladder placing her hand on her chest, feeling Shiva's dancing feet in the beat of her heart.

"When I was little I felt my heart was beating to the sound of G.o.d's dancing feet.

Everywhere, in everything, I could hear music to dance to.

When I grew up that music grew fainter and I started to love applause.

I want someone who can help me feel dance the way I used to.

I miss feeling dance inside me.

I miss hearing music in everything."

Akka gives me a sharp nod.

Encouraged, I continue. "My grandma said she saw

you dancing long ago.

That you treated dance as a sacred art, an offering of devotion to G.o.d.

And I think I felt that way a little when I was young.

I want a teacher who can help me learn about that."

Akka's gaze pierces me. "Veda, if you want to relearn dance, You'll need to begin at the beginning."

"Along with the little ones?"

Part of me cringes at the thought.

But I straighten up, look her in the eye, and say, "Yes."

"As for fees, Veda, I do things the old way here.

Each student gives me whatever they can.

Some students pay nothing.

I leave it up to them and their parents to decide what they can afford."

I'm her student already?

Without having to prove what I can or can't do physically?

And she doesn't care whether I pay?

It feels too good to be true. I stutter my thanks, explain about the new limb I'll be getting soon.

Akka sets a date for my first lesson and says, "Govinda, the student who teaches the beginners,

is about your age.

You'll learn from him until you're ready to learn from me.

Come, I'll take you to him."