akka says. "The story of Gautami.

Veda will play her role as well."

A little girl runs up to us.

"This is my kid sister, Leela," Govinda says.

"I'm not a kid," Leela says, hands on hips. "I'm eight and a half."

"Namaskaram," I say, as seriously as I'd greet any adult.

"It's very nice to meet you, Leela."

The entire cast surrounds us.

A pretty girl who looks my age, though a lot shorter, with dimpled cheeks and large eyes, extends her hand in friendship.

"I'm Radhika," she says. "Govinda's neighbor."

After years of being envied at my old dance cla.s.s, after weeks of being whispered about at my school, I'm encircled by welcoming smiles.

JUST AS WARM.

When I tell them I'll be onstage soon (although with many others, playing just two tiny roles), Chandra whoops, Paati wraps me in her plush arms, Pa lifts me a foot off the ground, and Ma gives me a hug.

Not nearly as soft as Paati's but just as warm.

NOT EVEN.

an

OLD WOMAN.

My first part in the play should be easy.

All I have to do is hobble onstage with a cane.

But I don't even play an old woman well enough to please Dhanam akka.

"Buddha was born a prince," she says. "It was prophesied He could rule the whole world.

Yet when He saw your plight, He gave up His entire kingdom, His wealth, His power, His family.

You made Him yearn to seek a way to end all human suffering.

Your role in the play represents the pain of all humanity.

The sight of you-poverty-stricken, overcome by age and illness- turned Buddha from a mere man into a reincarnation of G.o.d."

According to Paati's story there were four sights that moved Buddha: one old person, one afflicted with illness, a corpse, a monk whose face glowed peace.

But I don't correct akka.

My second role is even harder.

In my second role, I am Gautami, a woman who came to the Buddha with her dead son in her arms, begging Him to bring her son back to life.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Buddha asked her to bring Him a mustard seed from the home of a family that had never suffered.

Gautami left her son's body at His feet and went from house to house, searching for a family that had not known pain.

No family could give her a mustard seed because every family had seen sorrow.

Instead, they gave her comfort and shared tales of loss.

Speaking and listening to stranger after suffering stranger, Gautami saw that death came to everyone and she accepted the tragedy that had struck her life.

Returning to where her son's body rested, she felt embraced by the compa.s.sion in His eyes.

Knowing that her son's soul lived on, Gautami cremated her son's body.

To play Gautami's role, I must show not only pain but also acceptance and peace.

After rehearsal, Radhika, who plays the Buddha's kind stepmother, pulls me aside.

"Akka's hard on all of us during rehearsals.

Once, she yelled at me ten minutes straight," she says.

Radhika is sweet to try comforting me.

But though I sincerely thank her, I still feel frustrated at myself as I trudge down the drive.

Govinda catches up with me.

"Veda, are you all right?"

"I don't know what akka wants of me.

I can't tell what I'm doing wrong."

"Akka thinks of dance as a way to help our souls progress through our many incarnations.

She wants us to use dance to engage with our deepest emotions, not to escape ourselves and the world.

She says we can learn about Karma and acting rightly in this life through the characters we become in a dance-drama."

Govinda's feet keep pace with my mismatched pair all the way to the bus stop.

More than his words, I'm comforted by the sight of his feet, waiting alongside mine, until my bus arrives.

THE PAIN.

of

LOSING.

At home, I find Paati in her wicker chair, rubbing her temples, looking as though she has a headache.

I fetch the sesame oil to ma.s.sage away her pains, the way she'd do mine.

"Akka says I need to show the pain of humanity better, though I'm only onstage for a few minutes in the first role.

And she cast me as Gautami-I don't know why, given she isn't pleased with how I play the first role."

Paati says, "Losing someone you love probably isn't so different from losing a part of your body.

I doubt many other students know pain as well as you do."

THE THIRD EYE.

Dhanam akka says she wants me to work on my part.

With her. Alone.

Akka leads me to the hall where we first met and motions me to a chair.

She touches the red dot at the center of her forehead.

"Veda, do you know why we wear a potu?"

Her tone is gentle.

And the last thing I expected was for her to ask me a question.

I'm too surprised to answer.

"The dot symbolizes your third eye," she says.

"We wear it to remind ourselves to look with knowledge and compa.s.sion, as a true guru would.

When we use our inner eye, we see with our minds and our hearts.

We see truth; we see beauty; we see Shiva.

Inside you, Veda, I sense the flame of extraordinary courage, but not enough compa.s.sion.

If you must dance, the way I want my students to, you must learn to be compa.s.sionate.

To yourself and to others.