Tham Namah Saathvikam Shivam."

He who resides within every being in the universe; who speaks the universal language; whose ornaments are heavenly spheres; Him we worship, Shiva, the serene one.

Next, Govinda demonstrates the dancer's apology to Mother Earth.

With ease, the rest of the cla.s.s imitates his movements.

Palms on the wall for support, I manage to follow them, my pose imperfect, but not too noticeably different.

We begin the first exercise, hands on hips, knees bent, feet to the sides, raising each foot off the ground and bringing it down, thaiya thai, thaiya thai.

Govinda's voice fills the room.

"Empty yourselves of everything except good thoughts."

My eyes fix themselves on the feet rising and stamping the earth so effortlessly.

It's hard not to grudge the ease with which the others move.

I'm not sure I can empty myself of wishing for those able bodies I don't own.

TOUCH.

LOST.

Pa, Ma, Paati, Chandra, all ask, "How does the new leg feel?"

I don't point out their question misses a point: Even this new leg doesn't feel.

I won't ever feel five of my toes, my ankle, my instep, my heel.

My right foot will never tell me if the floor is wet/dry, hot/cold, flat/sloping, rough/smooth, b.u.mpy/slippery.

My right leg has lost touch with the world.

But when they ask, I say, "Amazing,"

because it feels amazingly better than the old trial limb and because I know that's the answer they need to hear.

ONLY.

Three.

TALENTS.

Tired of holding the wall when I perform the apology to the Earth G.o.ddess, I try it without support although a tremor crawls up my spine at the thought of falling in front of the children.

My feet and knees to the sides, I lower my torso, my back erect.

I feel the weight on my left side rolling onto the ball of my foot, feel my left heel lift off the ground.

But I can't sense what my right foot is doing.

Unbalanced, I tumble out of position.

My bottom b.u.mps on the ground.

A giggle erupts and spreads.

The entire earth seems to shake with scorn.

I am a fallen piece of rubble.

"Silence." Govinda's eyes leap like angry flames.

Every trace of laughter dies.

Govinda instructs the cla.s.s to continue, walks over to face me and a.s.sumes the pose himself: knees bent all the way to the sides, resting his torso on his heels, legs folded in half beneath him, balancing on tiptoe, back perfectly straight.

He's so close I catch the faint coconut scent of his hair.

"Veda, our ancient scriptures say the best dancers must have ten talents: balance, agility, steadiness, grace, intelligence, dedication, hard work, the ability to sing well, to speak well, and to see deeply and expressively.

You've only lost the first three talents.

Only for a while."

The three I need most.

What use are the rest?

"Soon you'll regain all ten talents."

Govinda waits.

In the depths of his eyes I see no pity.

Only patience and trust.

His hands stretch on either side of my waist between the edge of my blouse and the top of my skirt near enough to hold me from another fall but not touching.

He thinks I can do it on my own.

"Only three have you lost.

Only temporarily.

You have all seven other talents."

He repeats those words as though they're an incantation.

Listening to his resonant voice, I rise to my mismatched feet.

TWO MEN.

Our exam results arrive.

Chandra tops the list.

Paati and my parents sign a card for her and Chandra and I go to her favorite cafe-Java Joy-to celebrate.

"Your family must be thrilled," I tell her. "My ma's backed off since the accident, but deep down she probably still wishes I could be an engineer.

She'd exchange you for me any day."

Chandra stabs a piece of cake. "Your family gives me so much attention.

Mine hardly notices my achievements.

Everything I do, one of my sisters did already.

Plus, you know that boy my sister was seeing in secret?

His parents found out about them.

They were angry because they're wealthier and a different caste.

So he dumped her.

She's miserable, poor thing.

She was so upset she even told my parents about him after they broke up.

So my parents are in a tizzy trying to set her up with a suitable boy now. No time for me."

To steer Chandra's thoughts away from her family, I ask if she's decided what she wants to do in college yet, though college is still years and many exams away.

"I'm going to become a biomedical engineer,"

she says, starting to cheer up. "Someday I'll make a leg that'll listen to your brain so you can do every Bharatanatyam pose you can think of."

I'm glad my accident at least helped Chandra figure out her career path.

Chandra spears another piece of cake.

"Speaking of dance poses, how's it going with dancer boy?

He sounds interest-ing. And interest-ed."

No boy is going to find me attractive.

Least of all someone as gorgeous as Govinda.

"He's helping you out a lot," Chandra says.