See the strength, the weakness, the curve of each back, the slope of each shoulder.

Elbows with a natural bend.

Upper bodies that jut out too far forward as though they're trying to race ahead of the feet.

No body perfect.

No two children the same size or shape.

But every dancing child a manifestation of Shiva in human form.

LETTING GO.

The morning of my birthday, I ask Pa to come to the temple with me, where I've gone with Paati every birthday morning before this one.

In the vacant lot where the beggar lived, I see a scrawny boy dressed in a filthy T-shirt.

He tears a thin roti in half, holds the bread out to feed a stray dog.

"Pa," I say, "I don't need to go to the temple.

I want to give something to that child."

Pa looks at the boy sharing his meager meal.

At home Pa helps me pack a bag with chappatis, mangoes, bananas.

From under her bed, I take out Paati's trunk, still full with all her things.

We give the food and the trunk to the scrawny child.

"Shiva," I say. "This is for you."

The child looks puzzled.

"My name isn't Shiva, but thanks for the food."

He opens the trunk and nuzzles his cheek against a sari.

"I can use this as a sheet," he says.

Above, I see a silver-gray cloud- the same shade as Paati's hair.

I let her image go.

And I watch the cloud drift like incense smoke rising up high.

LETTERS.

and

WORDS.

Waiting at home are two envelopes addressed to me.

One is in Govinda's slanted handwriting.

Inside it, I find three sketches: the first of the lotus pond where we sat together, the second of two hands shaping the symbol for an eagle in flight, the third of a boy and a girl flying a kite.

He writes: Dear Veda, Happy birthday.

Love, Govinda.

My feelings leap and plunge like waves.

Plunge because his message is so short.

Leap because he remembered and cared enough to draw scenes of the times our togetherness felt magical.

Stroking his signature, I reread it twice.

He called me dear. He signed love.

Does he call everyone "dear"?

Always sign with "love"?

I pluck up my courage and write Govinda a note.

Dear Govinda, Thanks for the birthday wishes.

Let's talk sometime?

Maybe we can meet at the stage beneath the banyan tree after my cla.s.s, some evening when you can take a break from studies?

Love,

Veda

I read my note aloud to test whether it's enough or too little or too much.

Trying to stop worrying what Govinda will think of it, I drop it in the mailbox.

The other card is from my old rival, Kamini.

"Veda, Many happy returns of the day, Kamini."

Kamini, whom I've almost forgotten, remembers my birthday.

Kamini, whom I've hardly thought of, thinks of me.

She wishes me well even though the last time we met I was rude and left her crying in the middle of the road.

Looking at her card, I feel self-centered.

Childish.

Anything but a year older.

I start writing Kamini a letter.

Crumple the paper, toss it away.

Look at her address, scrawled on the envelope.

Sometime after my birthday, I'll go to her home and tell her I'm sorry.

CRESCENT SMOOTH.

Pa and Ma have invited Radhika and Chandra over in the evening for a not-so-surprise birthday party.

Pa's bought a cake and decorated the front room.

Ma's cooked dinner.

I've prepared our entertainment: mixed henna powder with hot lemon juice so we can paint henna tattoos on our skin.

I ask if I may invite another guest.

"Sure," Pa says. "Even a boy."

"Your friend Govinda?" Ma suggests.

I shake my head.

I change into the blue batik skirt that ends above my knee and walk downstairs to the Subramaniams' apartment, my legs no longer hidden.

Shobana gazes at my outfit and gives me a thumbs-up sign, though her mother purses her lips.

Mrs. Subramaniam probably finds my skirt too short but at least she doesn't say so.

And she nods enthusiastically when I invite Shobana upstairs.

Chandra offers to play henna artist.

"Birthday girl, which hand would you like me to paint first?"

I sit in Paati's wicker chair.

Stretch out my legs.

"Feet first, please?"

She paints identical patterns on both feet, from the tips of my toes to below my ankles.

When she's done, my feet look exactly alike, covered with curly jasmine creepers, hearts, lines, flowers, stars, spirals, circles.

That night, I reach under the covers.