GREETING.

GRACE.

Dhanam akka leads me toward an airy cla.s.sroom.

Pausing outside the door, I hear a sound I've missed: the sound of feet raining a dance rhythm on the ground, a sound that fills me with a desperate longing for dance the way a wilting plant must long for water.

"Govinda!" akka calls.

A boy walks out of the cla.s.sroom.

His body long and muscular. Back perfectly straight.

A dancer's body.

His hair a sheet of midnight. Sleek, shiny, shoulder length.

His eyes pools of honey. Deep brown, flecked with gold.

"Govinda, this is Veda," akka says. "She was a dancer but met with an accident that cost her her right foot.

You'll be helping her relearn dance."

If Govinda feels shocked that he's getting a student who is a below-knee amputee, he doesn't show it.

He presses his elegant, clove-dark hands together, closes his eyes, and greets me the traditional way. "Namaskaram."

His voice matches his looks-deep, rich, smooth.

The grace with which he bows his head and hands, the seriousness with which he says Namaskaram, as though he's chanting a prayer, remind me of what the greeting means- that he salutes the G.o.d within me.

When I return his greeting, pressing my palms together, it feels magical instead of mechanical.

Govinda's gaze meets mine and I burn with a desire to dance myself beautiful in front of him.

A REAL.

SMILE.

"Dhanam akka's the one," I tell Paati as I enter our apartment.

Breathing heavily, she heaves herself up off the floor in front the household altar and says, "Your teacher is lucky, Veda.

She's found a student who'll create a new world through dance just as Shiva creates new universes through His steps.

A world where others with special limbs will learn to enjoy their beauty."

First thing Pa asks after he and Ma come home, "How was the new dance school, Veda?"

No surprise there.

What surprises me is how Ma reacts to my answer.

She smiles a real smile.

SEEING BEAUTIFUL.

In Jim's office, I see a chair covered with a white sheet.

"Ta-da!" he cries as he whips it off, revealing a nearly lifelike limb.

"Is your new limb to your liking, ma'am?"

My skin tone matches the limb's hue.

I stroke it. Something soft as flesh fills the s.p.a.ce between the metal skeleton and rubber skin.

I lift the limb.

It's lighter than my trial limb.

I try it on.

When they're side by side and compared closely, my feet do look different. But no audience could tell them apart if they saw me from a distance-onstage.

I press down on the toe.

When I ease off, I feel a springiness to the foot, a push, giving me a faint pulse of energy back.

Almost a response.

"I love it!"

Jim grins. "Amazing, huh? That foot's durable, too.

Should last a couple of years. Won't wear out too quickly."

"Wear out?"

"Don't look so worried, kiddo.

The project will provide replacements.

Your foot will wear out the way your shoes wear out.

No foot lasts a lifetime."

Except the ones we're born with.

Usually.

"Anything I can't do with this leg?"

I want him to say one word: No.

Jim launches into a list.

". . . can't wear high heels . . .

. . . can tiptoe only if knees are bent . . .

. . . can't flex and point the foot . . .

but you'll be able to dance Bharatanatyam.

A below-knee amputee with faith in herself is two-legged, not one-legged, as far as I'm concerned.

"Now, ma'am, would you try out a few dance poses, please?

I want to make sure the fit's perfect."

a.s.suming the basic half-sitting pose -feet splayed, knees out to the sides, legs bent like the edges of a diamond- I move my feet one at a time, slowly, then at second speed, then speeding up to third and fastest speed.

"Beautiful," Jim says.

My heart races.

The naked admiration in his voice makes me feel grown up.

But then Jim squats and taps my unfeeling limb.

"Beautiful," he repeats. "Beautiful engineering, beautiful design, if I do say so myself."

BOULDER.

Twice the age and size of every other beginner in Govinda's cla.s.sroom, I feel as out of place as a boulder brought down by the Ganga glacier from the heights of the Himalayas and abandoned on the river plain.

By the back wall of the sun-drenched cla.s.sroom, I skulk.

But I can't hide how I tower over the rest of my cla.s.smates.

A little girl looks up at me. "You're so big!

Why're you in this cla.s.s?"

While I wonder how to react, Govinda states matter-of-factly that I lost a leg in an accident, that I have a new one I'm learning to dance with.

"But we're not here to chatter, children.

We're here to learn Bharatanatyam. Right?" he says.

"Right!" Their attention shifts back to him.

"We begin every dance session with a prayer," Govinda says.

Uday anna's cla.s.s never began or ended with prayers.

"Aangikam bhuvanam yasya; Vaachikam sarvavaangmayam; Aahaaryam Chandrathaaraadhi;