In the distance, a woodp.e.c.k.e.r raps at a tree trunk, tha thai tha, dhit thai tha.

Govinda whispers, "Tha thai tha, dhit thai tha."

He's saying aloud the same rhythm I hear in my head.

"Veda, can you hear it?

Music to dance to. All around us."

"I hear it."

I feel closer to him than if we were in one another's arms.

A PART.

The evening of our performance as a minor player in the large sweep of a dance production the nervousness I feel is not for myself but for Govinda, who is in the lead, and for Radhika and all the others who stay longer onstage than I do.

Akka lights a lamp backstage and we bow to it.

When it's my turn, my right foot leads my left onto the stage into the pain I felt when my body and part of my life were torn away.

My back hunched, I play the woman overcome by age and illness.

In the sc.r.a.pe of the cane I hold, I hear the echo of my crutches.

In my second role, as Gautami, I hold not the body of my lost child, but my severed limb.

When Gautami is comforted by strangers, I hear the words strangers said to me after Paati's death, and feel a sense of peace.

Dhanam akka nods and gives me quick pat on the shoulder.

Radhika hugs me and says I was "amazing."

Govinda's little sister, Leela, joins me in the wings.

Together, we watch the rest of the play.

At the end of the evening, Govinda leads me onstage with him, ahead of the rest of the cast despite my minor role.

Standing together in a group, we press our palms together and bow our heads to salute the audience.

When our shared applause comes, it feels like being part of a winning cricket team, only far, far better.

Because I'm part of a dance team, together with people who share my love of dance.

TO STAND.

I find Govinda slumped in a chair when I enter akka's study for our first cla.s.s together after our performance.

I can't imagine why he looks so defeated.

"Govinda? You were wonderful onstage."

He doesn't seem to hear me.

"My parents want me to cut back on dance now that the production is over.

To work with a tutor.

Prepare for college entrance tests.

Become an engineer.

I don't know how I can argue anymore-"

He breaks off and stares at the carpet.

It was hard enough for me just fighting my ma, having Pa and Paati supporting me.

Govinda has no one in his family backing him up.

I put my hands on his shoulders.

"On top of it all," Govinda says, "there's a new beginner cla.s.s I'm supposed to teach.

I don't want to give up my own dance lessons with akka- but there's not enough time to do everything."

"What if I teach your beginner cla.s.s so you don't have to give up your own-" I stop short, shocked by my own words.

Me? A teacher? What am I thinking?

Govinda straightens up as if I lifted a load off his back.

"That's a great idea. You'd be good for the kids.

You'll love teaching. And I could use the extra time to study."

Every trace of dullness leaves him.

He looks so relieved that I can't take back my offer.

"Thanks, Veda.

Thanks so much. Let's talk to akka."

Hoping akka will refuse to let me teach, I follow Govinda out of the study.

Unfortunately, akka seems pleased I volunteered to help him out.

"One learns best through teaching," she says.

"I'm glad you'd like to teach dance, Veda."

TEACHING.

to

LEARN.

A roomful of eager eyes turns toward me.

My voice trembles. "Namaskaram.

My name is Veda." I think of the grace with which Govinda imbued that word and gesture the first time we met.

The only little boy in cla.s.s is first to introduce himself.

"My name is Roshan," he says, his round face beaming.

He's followed by six small, excited girls.

Only one girl hangs back, a faded scarf covering her mouth and chin despite the heat.

"What's your name?" I approach her, hoping to make her feel welcome.

Her ragged clothes suggest she's one of the poorer students.

"Uma," she answers, a cautious look in her large eyes, her scarf m.u.f.fling her voice.

Is she hiding her face because she's painfully shy?

I teach the children the starting prayer, show them how to do the first exercise.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I wipe my sweaty palm dry on my skirt.

I'm not scared to tap out basic rhythms. I know how.

I'm not even worried about how I'll look dancing the basic exercises in front of the children; I can manage all of them, if imperfectly.

What frightens me is living up to the example Govinda set.

Govinda, so generous, caring, concerned.

Paati's voice whispers in my mind. "I was a teacher.

Your pa is a teacher. It's in your blood."

Clutching the stick with both hands, I tap out the first rhythm in first speed.

Thaiya thai, thaiya thai.

Repeating the rhythm, my voice and my hands grow steady.

After cla.s.s, I look for Uma, who hid half her face behind her scarf the entire time she danced.

She's disappeared.

DRIVE.