by Nisha Sharma
“Don’t say that, Radha. Will you please just—please calm down for a second? You love to dance. Your dance joy, right? The moment when you’re so happy? You’ll never lose that.”
“I think I already have,” Radha sobbed. “And you’re the one who took it away from me.”
She spun, racing for the door. Her heart was being shredded into a thousand tiny particles as she rushed toward her hotel. The sound of her ghungroos rang like an alarm signaling the end of everything that had made her feel safe.
Chapter Two
Princeton, New Jersey
August
Radha
Radha,
I’m sorry we haven’t had our phone calls the last two weeks. I know this move from Chicago to New Jersey hasn’t been easy for you, and I hoped that I could clear my schedule at the restaurant a bit more than I have so we could talk about it.
Your mother texted yesterday and told me that you’re not willing to “dedicate yourself to your dance career” at your new arts school.
If dance is no longer your passion, then I think you need to find a new one. You know, to keep your mind occupied. Why don’t you try cooking? Hopefully, you now have the time to learn more about my side of the family.
I’m sending you a recipe notebook I got when your dadaji died. It was my rule book when I opened my restaurant here in Chicago. Dadaji used it when he opened his dhaba in India.
Cooking is an art form, just like dance. It may never replace kathak in your life, but maybe you’ll learn something new about yourself in the process.
Love you, chutki,
Papa
P.S. Sorry about the chicken scratch. This was the only piece of paper I could find to write on before packing up this box. Don’t worry about the chicken, though. I’m making a nice chicken curry with it later. Get it? Chicken scratch? Chicken curry? I know you’re laughing!
The ghungroos Radha tied around her ankles didn’t feel comfortable anymore. She hadn’t put them on in months, and they pinched now. She shifted, hearing the subtle ring of bells echo through the empty dance studio as she stood for inspection in front of the three judges.
The woman who sat in the center, Director Japera Muza, held a tablet in one hand and arched a brow until it almost touched her brightly colored dhuku. When she spoke, Radha felt instantly soothed by the lyrical sound of her accent.
“So, you want to be a new student this year.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Radha Chopra. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded as she scrolled through her tablet. The action was so regal, Radha was fascinated.
“It looks like from February through the end of this past school year, your grades plummeted. Care to explain?”
“I, uh, transferred to a public high school in the second half of my junior year. In that time, I was in a…transition period with my family.”
“Ahh,” the director said. She tapped the edge of her tablet screen. “Well, you’ll have to keep your grades up for both your academic curriculum and your dance classes at the Princeton Academy for the Arts and Sciences. In the dance department, and in the school as a whole, we take education very seriously.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
The woman turned to the teachers sitting on either side of her before she spoke again. “Normally, we host auditions for incoming freshmen only. Students find it hard to keep up if they join the curriculum in a later year. However, your mother was…persuasive about your skill. Tell me, why do you want to come to our school?”
The truth was on the tip of Radha’s tongue.
Holy Vishnu, why do you think I’m here?
Because I can’t stay in Chicago, since my entire dance community hates me for giving up at the International Kathak Classics.
Because I have nothing in common with my father, and I feel like dance had something to do with why he’s so sad.
Because this is supposed to be my new beginning, and I’ll never have to dance again if I finish this one year at this new school.
Radha glanced at the door and saw her mother’s face through the glass pane. She’d become more frantic, more demanding since the Kathak Classics. When her eyes narrowed and she looked like she was about to barge in, Radha answered the director.
“Kathak is a form of North Indian classical dance that is about stories. The name kathak is a derivative of katha, which means ‘story,’ so it’s an art form that meshes music, dance, and drama. My gharana, or house style, is Jaipuri and focuses on a combination of complex footwork and hand movements. These were the building blocks of my storytelling. When I…when I danced and everything came together just the way I wanted it to—the feet, the hands, the expressions on my face—I used to call it my dance joy.”
All three audition judges nodded at her.
“Things have changed for me since the beginning of the year. Princeton Academy for the Arts and Sciences is my second chance.” A second chance for what, she didn’t know. The one thing she was completely sure of, though, was that she’d never experience the same dance joy that she used to when she performed. It wasn’t possible. The panic attacks consumed her anytime she tried.
But she had to tell these guys something.
“Is kathak the only style you know?” the judge to the right of the director asked.
Radha shook her head. “I have familiarity with regional folk dancing, and I’ve also been exposed to contemporary, funk, and hip-hop, the last to help with my muscle isolation.”
Director Muza looked her up and down. “With your mix of styles, you must have done some Bollywood dancing, then.”
The observation made her pause. Radha had been through a ton of programs, and she always knew the good ones from the bad. A good program had educated performers who became teachers. A bad program had teachers who couldn’t tell Bollywood from a two-step.
“I’m familiar with the styles individually,” she said carefully, “and, yes, the fusion of the styles that create Bollywood dancing too. I’ve even taken Bollywood as an elective during summer courses in India. Most people wouldn’t have been able to recognize that as part of my skill set.”
“I’m not most people,” the director said with a smile. “Okay, Ms. Chopra. We believe in second chances here, too. Why don’t you perform for us? We’ll take your seven-month hiatus into account.”
Radha’s heart began to pound. Here it was. That clenching in her stomach that made her queasy and light-headed. Keep it together, Chopra, she told herself. She couldn’t break now. She had freedom to secure, and she only had to fake it for forty-five seconds. A slight tremor in her fingertips shot up her arms and into her chest.
Adrenaline. Stress. Performance anxiety. She’d had it all her life, but since her return from London, her body and brain would go on the fritz anytime she tried to perform. That was part of the reason she’d had to transfer out of her dance school: there were performances every Friday night. Thankfully, Princeton didn’t have that same curriculum requirement, according to her mother.
She patted her crown of French braids to make sure nothing would come loose and walked with wobbly knees to the left side of the studio to take her starting position.
You can do this, you can do this, you can do this. Just breathe. Your future happiness depends on holding it together, Radha.
Her feet were sluggish. Her skin felt clammy. Her vision began to blur. Were her ghungroos always this heavy? Why was it so hot?
The music started, and she missed the first three beats before, thank God, her body took over and the routine came to her like muscle memory. As hard as she tried, her facial expressions felt off, her feet too sluggish, but she remembered the steps for the most part. It was the piece she’d prepared for the semifinals of the International
Kathak Classics. A fitting choice, to pick up where she’d left off in her performance career. It had been a time of beautiful ignorance.
Radha spun across the floor, and then it happened.
The click. That magic that she hadn’t felt in so long, that she’d been sure didn’t exist anymore.
Dance joy.
It burst through her and left her weightless.
Oh my God.
She tried to hold on to it, but it was gone between one second and the next.
The magic ended, the music stopped, and she held the last pose, gasping for air, before returning to stand in front of the judges in the center of the room. She ruthlessly fisted her hands until her fingernails dug crescents into her palms, the clamminess coming back in a slow rush. Her legs were going to fold under her any minute.
The judges, ignorant of her panic, continued writing notes on their tablets for a few more moments before Director Muza looked up. “Can I ask you something, Radha?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want that second chance for yourself? Or for your mother?”
If Radha hadn’t trained for years to keep a controlled expression, her jaw would’ve been on the floor. How had this woman seen through her that quickly?
“A—a little bit of both, ma’am.”
“Mm-hmm.” Director Muza pursed her lips. “I guess that’s as close to an honest answer as I’m getting. You did well. I can tell that you’re out of practice, but you have skills.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Director Muza consulted with the other judges, who pointed to their tablets and deliberated among themselves. Radha felt an itch in her throat while the silence mounted.
“Congratulations,” Director Muza finally said. “Welcome to the academy’s dance program. Start working on your endurance and your muscle tone over the next couple of weeks. You’re weak. When you come in for your first day, we’ll plan your schedule with you. For your kathak focus, you’ll complete an independent study. On top of that, you’re going to have to work hard to catch up, not only with your dance classes but with your general classes as well. But we’re not going to give up on you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Radha? Director is fine.”
“Yes, Director. Thank you for the opportunity.”
Radha put one foot in front of the other and walked toward the door, where she retrieved her phone from the student manning the speaker. She shoved it in her duffel bag and exited the studio. Her mother nearly jumped her the minute she walked into the hallway.
“That wasn’t your best. You should’ve practiced. What did they say? Are you in?”
“Yes, but by the skin of my teeth.”
Sujata’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you want me to talk to them?”
“No, definitely not. I start in two weeks. I’ll get my schedule then.”
“Oh, good,” her mother said. She clasped her hands. “I start my new job at the same time. We can go to the gym together in the mornings. That’s the quickest way to get you in shape. It’ll be just like old times. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“No, we aren’t going back to old times, Mom. Nothing like it used to be.”
Her mother recoiled. “You should be grateful for what I’m doing. I’ve changed my life too.”
“Sorry,” Radha said. She cleared her throat and tried again so that the hurt on her mother’s face would go away. “Sorry. But I just want this year to be over so I can move on.”
“You came with me to New Jersey because you promised you’d give this opportunity an honest try. If you’re not going to dance like you said you would, then you need to be in Chicago. That’s what the therapists all said.”
“Well, the therapists are wrong,” she said evenly. “I came to New Jersey because everyone I know in Chicago hates me for failing the entire American kathak community in January.” That was the truth that she couldn’t tell the judges during her audition. “Mom, you promised that if I do this for a year, then I’m free. None of my reasons have anything to do with wanting to get on a stage again.”
Her mother huffed. She looked up and down the hallway before leaning in. “Yes, but for you to stay, you have to put in the effort to see if you can be competition level again in one year. But the key word is effort. I need to see you try, Radha; otherwise, our deal is off and I send you back.”
“The more you repeat your promise, the more I think you’re just trying to convince yourself that this is the best thing for me. You know what? Maybe Chicago is the lesser of two evils here.”
She turned to walk down the hall, but her mother stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, what if I make you another deal?”
Radha rolled her eyes. Did non-Indian dancers have to put up with the same kind of crap from their dance parents? “What more could you promise me other than leaving me alone?”
“College. Your father’s contribution in the settlement will barely cover living expenses.”
“What in the world? Mom, what are you—”
“Radha, the amount is so little that even if I match it, you still wouldn’t be able to afford state school without student loans.”
Radha crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong with student loans?”
Her mother mimicked her pose. “Do you really want me to go into a lecture about interest rates?”
“No, I want to avoid this conversation altogether,” Radha said.
“How about this. I can pay for whatever your tuition will be at whatever school you decide to go to.” She steepled her fingers together, her expression eager. “You can even study whatever you want. Dance, storytelling, cooking like your father. Whatever. I’ll be so supportive I’ll become the mom who sends you care packages. But only if you give me everything you can for this one year to prove to me that you never want to dance again.”
“What if I don’t want to go to college?”
“Then I really will turn into your Indian mother from hell,” she said in Hindi. “Not dancing is one thing, but don’t test my limits.”
Radha had to hide her smile. “Fine. Why would you make this promise? It’s not like you get anything out of this.”
Her mother squeezed her shoulders. “Because I love you. Because I want you to get your dance joy back. Because I know how it feels to stop dancing and regret it years later. And because you’ve worked too hard, and you’re too talented, to let all this go. You need to be in the spotlight, Radha. I’m so sorry I had any part in taking your dance joy away, but together we can do this.”
There was a catch. There had to be a catch. Her mother was promising her complete freedom if Radha got back into competitive shape with her Kathak training.
Yes, she thought. That’s what I want.
“I don’t have to perform?”
Something flickered in her mother’s eyes, even as she looked away. “I won’t force a performance on you, but you’ll have to meet whatever your class requirements are and pass with flying colors.”
Well, that was something at least, Radha thought. As long as she didn’t have to perform…it didn’t sound like too bad a deal. “I want it in writing.”
“For God’s sake, Radha—”
Radha held up her hands. “You’re the one who always tells me that verbal promises are broken promises.”
Sujata rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll put it in writing.”
“Okay, then,” Radha said slowly. “Offer accepted. You pay for whatever school I want to go to, and I’ll commit to dance.”
“Good. Great! Now. We have so much to do to get your muscle tone back. I’m going to order some weights for the house. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go to the car.” She reached for the duffel bag, but Radha jerked it away. She’d tucked her grandfather’s notebook inside at the last minute. She wasn
’t ready to share it with her mother.
“I’ll meet you there. I want to take my ghungroos off and stop at the bathroom.”
“I can wait.”
“I just need a moment, Mom.”
“You sure?”
I wouldn’t have suggested it if I weren’t, Radha thought. But she’d used up all her snark for one day. “Positive. Go ahead.”
Her mother’s skinny heels clipped against the tiled floor as she went back to the parking lot. Radha took a few deep breaths and then walked on wobbly legs to the classroom next door. She peeked through the window before she opened it.
That was when she saw someone standing in the far corner. He had been facing the music system, so she hadn’t spotted him at first glance.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
She turned to go, but he waved a hand to stop her. “No, it’s all right. I’m leaving in a few minutes, so feel free to use the space.”
That was when Radha really noticed him. If her legs hadn’t been shaking already, they would’ve started. She wasn’t someone who’d spent a lot of time around guys, since she’d always been so busy training for the next performance, but—hai bhagwan—this one put Ranveer Singh to shame…if Ranveer Singh were a toned seventeen-year-old.
“Hi,” he said slowly. He approached her with an unhurried swagger that made her want to giggle. His hair was just a little too long and perfectly tousled.
Ooh, and he moved with grace and a complete awareness of what his body could do. Praise the gods.
“I’m Jai. You’re…Radha, right? Radha Chopra?”
When he said her name, her distraction turned into confusion. “How did you know—whoa. Shit.”
Her knees gave out as if they’d been waiting for this perfect, inopportune moment to fold on her. She fell against Jai’s chest and was immediately consumed by his incredible scent while simultaneously feeling horrified. How cliché could she be?
