Being Govinda's kid sister is almost as bad as being Jim's "kiddo."

"Veda? We're going to play a game."

Now Govinda's acting as if I am his kid sister.

"I'm not a kid."

Or his sister, but I don't add that.

"I'm your teacher." Govinda mimics my voice.

"Listen to me for once."

He walks to a far corner of the study, sits in the chair by the writing desk, stretches his long legs out, and says, "Stand on my feet."

"Stand on your feet?"

"Place your feet sideways over mine, Veda.

Toes on the floor. Knees bent in the half-sitting pose."

"Why?"

"Please?"

I position myself the way he wants, my toes touching the earth, my feet crisscrossing over his, my knees bent out to the sides.

He stretches out his hands and tells me to lay my palms on his.

We're touching.

The entire length of both my palms on both of his.

Music fills my ears-fast, high-pitched, like the buzz of a bee.

We're closer than I've been to any other boy my age.

And Govinda looks gorgeous, loves dance, and is an amazing, generous teacher.

He lifts his legs, his feet, and me into the air.

I shriek like a delighted child.

Govinda recites the words of a child's game: "Mamarathilla yerade, mangaye parikade."

Don't climb the mango tree, don't pluck the mango fruit.

I played this game with Pa, when I was little, my tiny feet planted entirely on his, his legs lifting me as high as they could, bouncing me up and down.

I'd feel like I was flying.

Govinda isn't lifting me nearly as high as Pa did, isn't keeping me in the air as long, but I'm older and heavier.

He must be so strong to bear my weight.

"Want you to enjoy feeling your body move," Govinda says, "thought it might help your sense of balance, too."

"Again?" I feel my face flush with childish excitement.

Govinda grins. "I thought you weren't a kid?"

I push my lips into an exaggerated pout.

We laugh and he lifts me once more.

His muscles tighten with strain.

I shift from side to side, stretch, rock, reorient my body to my new sense of balance.

Give in to the thrill of almost-falling, secure in the shelter of Govinda's arms.

DEMONS.

I stand up after falling from my lunge- and say, "Again."

Govinda shakes his head. "You dance like a demon, Veda."

Is he starting another fight?

But he says, earnestly, "It's a compliment."

"If that's a compliment," I say, "I'd hate to hear your insults."

"Your strength, and only your strength,"

Govinda clarifies, looking worried, "reminds me of the demon whom Shiva fought, the demon whose strength doubled whenever he fell to the ground."

"You have to work a lot harder on your compliments."

"You inspire me to work harder," he says, "on a lot of things."

"Such as what?"

"Such as my life. What I want to accomplish,"

Govinda explains. "My parents are engineers.

They want me to take over their engineering firm.

They don't understand how much I love teaching dance.

How little I care about making money."

"My ma was that way," I say. "Focused on me being an engineer.

Until my accident, we fought a lot.

Don't know how it would have gone if I hadn't lost my leg."

"I know how it would have gone.

You'd have forced your ma to come around.

You have no trouble fighting for what you love.

I'm not a fighter like you are, Veda, but I'm hoping some of your spirit will rub off on me."

So Govinda does admire me.

Thath thai thaam, dith thai thaam.

I kick, sink down into full-mandi, lunge, and leap up.

And land in the standing position.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Govinda punches the air.

I stand with both feet flat and sure on the floor, prepared to try some more, but Govinda says, "Maybe we should end with that today?

You know we've started working on a dance drama about the Buddha's life and I'm playing the lead?

Akka wanted to start rehearsing earlier today."

"Can I come watch?" I ask.

"I don't dare say no to my demon." Govinda's tone is affectionate.

And half teasing.

His demon?

This is the first time Govinda's ever called me "his."

My heart skips.

But maybe I'm making too much out of what Govinda said.

Maybe a nickname means no more to Govinda than it did to Jim.

A NEW CENTER.

Govinda and I walk toward the open-air stage beneath the banyan tree where the cast is a.s.sembled.

Dhanam akka arrives.

She says a small problem has come up.

There's a role vacant in the play.

A student-Renuka-is moving away.

"Tough role," someone comments.

"Wasn't Renuka playing the old, sick woman Buddha sees who's onstage for three whole minutes?"

Laughter ripples through the rest of the cast.

I say, "Please may I have that part?"

Everyone's gaze shifts to me.

On Govinda's face, I catch a look of admiration.

I say, "If I keel over, it'll only add a touch of realism."

"You may have that part, Veda.

And the part of Gautami," Dhanam akka adds.

Govinda looks puzzled. "Gautami?"

"We'll add a short scene to the play,"