The men were dressed in white tunics , pink trousers with pink , sequinned waistcoats .
Bangles on their arms and gold in their teeth . One playing the sitar and one whistling at gold
windchimes . The woman was wearing a long pink skirt , embroidered with white beads , sequins
and stitchwork . She had a simple , long sleeved white top covering her chest . Her bare stomach
had a thin gold chain wrapped around it , dancing as she played the tabla with joyful passion .
Her body enviably plump to us who were starved and hungry since birth . Their faces were
made-up in the same heavy kohl and red-lipped beauty I ’ d seen on Sara la Kali ’ s face .
“ Mama !” I called out as a figure moved out in front of us .
Wordlessly , my tearful , smiling Mama held me in a tight embrace as our tears became
one as they ran down our arms . The smell of jasmine in her hair , the so ness of her stomach , the
scratching of her bangles , the painful lump in my throat – I wanted to remember everything . I
didn ’ t have the time to understand how impossible this was . I didn ’ t want to question how or
why .
Cupping my face , Mama told me sternly in a voice I had imagined a thousand times over ;
“ You must dance . You mustn ’ t stop .”
I nodded , satisfied that I had correctly guessed my sweet Mama had a voice of silky honey .
I didn ’ t need my body to be pulled . I would dance freely .
“ Wait , little one .”