{"product_id":"a-time-to-dance-isbn-9780147514400","title":"A Time to Dance","description":"Padma Venkatraman’s inspiring story of a young girl’s struggle to regain her passion and find a new peace is told lyrically through verse that captures the beauty and mystery of India and the ancient \u003ci\u003ebharatanatyam\u003c\/i\u003e dance form. This is a stunning novel about spiritual awakening, the power of art, and above all, the courage and resilience of the human spirit.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eVeda, a classical dance prodigy in India, lives and breathes dance—so when an accident leaves her a below-knee amputee, her dreams are shattered. For a girl who’s grown used to receiving applause for her dance prowess and flexibility, adjusting to a prosthetic leg is painful and humbling. But Veda refuses to let her disability rob her of her dreams, and she starts all over again, taking beginner classes with the youngest dancers. Then Veda meets Govinda, a young man who approaches dance as a spiritual pursuit. As their relationship deepens, Veda reconnects with the world around her, and begins to discover who she is and what dance truly means to her.\"Venkatraman has created a rich, exotic, and fully human world that dazzles and delights. Her way with prose reflects Veda's with dancing: 'Nothing else fills me with as much elation as chasing down soaring music' This novel accomplishes exactly that.\"--\u003ci\u003eProvidence Sunday Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] powerful depiction of a teen girl struggling to recover from an accident.\"--\u003ci\u003eThe Chicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \" Set against a cardamom, melted butter, and semolina sojji-wafted landscape, the novel’s emotional expression and accompanying music impel the reader to share Veda’s belief that “Shiva dances everywhere. In everyone. In everything.”--\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \" A beautiful integration of art, religion, compassion and connection.”--K\u003ci\u003eirkus Reviews,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e* “ Told in verse, this story is magnificently strong as Veda’s determination dances off the page and into the reader’s heart.”--V\u003ci\u003eOYA,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e* “This exceptional novel, told entirely in verse, captures beautifully the emotions of a girl forced to deal with a number of challenges and how she overcomes them on her way to becoming a confident young woman. It is sure to appeal to readers who are also trying to find their place in the world.”--\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review — \u003cb\u003evarious\u003c\/b\u003ePadma Venkatraman (www.padmasbooks.com) is an oceanographer by training and a writer by choice. Her critically acclaimed novels \u003ci\u003eClimbing the Stairs\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eIsland’s End\u003c\/i\u003e were both ALA\/YALSA Best Books for Young Adults, Booklist Editor's Choice BBYAs, Amelia Bloomer list selections and CCBC choices, in addition to winning several other honors and awards (such as the South Asia Book Award, Paterson Prize, Julia Ward Howe BAC award, NYPL Book for the Teen Age, \u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year, Booksense Notable, and PW Flying Start). Padma was born in India, but is now an American citizen and lives with her family in Rhode Island.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePROLOGUE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTemple of the Dancing God\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClinging to the free end of Ma’s sari,\u003cbr\u003eI follow the tired shuffle of other pilgrims’ feet\u003cbr\u003einto the cool darkness of the temple\u003cbr\u003ewhere sweat-smell mingles with the fragrance of incense.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePa’s hand rests heavy on my curls.\u003cbr\u003eThe priest drops a pinch of sacred ash into Ma’s palm\u003cbr\u003eand she smears it on my forehead\u003cbr\u003eabove the red dot\u003cbr\u003eshe paints between my eyebrows each morning.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI push through the rustling curtain of women’s saris\u003cbr\u003eand men’s white veshtis,\u003cbr\u003etiptoeing to see better.\u003cbr\u003eA bronze statue of Shiva,\u003cbr\u003efour-armed God of dance, glistens.\u003cbr\u003eHe balances on His right leg alone,\u003cbr\u003eHis left raised parallel to earth,\u003cbr\u003ethe crescent moon a sparkling jewel He wears\u003cbr\u003ein His matted hair.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCarved high into the temple’s granite walls,\u003cbr\u003eI spy other celestial dancers.\u003cbr\u003e“Pa?” I tug at my father’s shirt.\u003cbr\u003eHe lifts me onto his shoulders\u003cbr\u003ebut the sculptures are\u003cbr\u003etoo far away to touch.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAfter the crowd empties out\u003cbr\u003einto the sunshine of the temple courtyard\u003cbr\u003eI, alone,\u003cbr\u003eslip back\u003cbr\u003einto the soft blackness of the empty hall,\u003cbr\u003espot a step-ladder propped against\u003cbr\u003emy dancer-filled wall\u003cbr\u003eand climb. Up, up, up, to the very top.\u003cbr\u003eLeaning forward, I trace\u003cbr\u003edancing feet\u003cbr\u003ewith my fingertips.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“What are you doing, little one?” A priest\u003cbr\u003esteadies my ladder. “You don’t have to climb\u003cbr\u003eladders to reach God.\u003cbr\u003eHe dances within all He creates.\u003cbr\u003eCome down.”\u003cbr\u003eI run my fingers\u003cbr\u003ealong the curve\u003cbr\u003eof each stone heel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe priest’s laugh rumbles up into my ears.\u003cbr\u003e“Place a hand on your chest.\u003cbr\u003eCan you feel Shiva’s feet moving inside you?”\u003cbr\u003eI press on my chest. Feel bony ribs. Under them, thumping,\u003cbr\u003efaint echoes of a dancing rhythm: thom thom thom.\u003cbr\u003eShiva outside me, gleaming in the temple sanctum.\u003cbr\u003eYet also leaping hidden, inside my body.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“God is everywhere. In every body. In everything.\u003cbr\u003eHe is born, at different times, in different places,\u003cbr\u003ewith different names.\u003cbr\u003eHe dances in heaven as Shiva, creator of universes;\u003cbr\u003eHe lived on earth as Buddha,\u003cbr\u003ehuman incarnation of compassion;\u003cbr\u003eAnd as you can see, he moves within you.\u003cbr\u003eNow, please, come down, little one.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI’m half-way down the ladder when Pa and Ma rush back in.\u003cbr\u003ePa prostrates, laying his squat body flat on the stone floor, thanking God.\u003cbr\u003eMa thanks the priest,\u003cbr\u003ewords of gratitude bursting from her like sobs.\u003cbr\u003e“Searched—the other four temples—couldn’t find her-\u003cbr\u003e—so scared—what if she’d left the temple complex—\u003cbr\u003e—run outside the walls— into the city—”\u003cbr\u003eAs we leave, Ma’s thin fingers pinch my shoulders\u003cbr\u003etight as tongs roasting rotis over an open flame.\u003cbr\u003ePa scolds, “You could have burst your head\u003cbr\u003eclimbing a ladder like that!”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy head is bursting\u003cbr\u003ewith images\u003cbr\u003eof stone dancers come alive, the tips of their bare toes twirling\u003cbr\u003ewith sounds\u003cbr\u003eof the tiny bells on their anklets twinkling\u003cbr\u003ewith music.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003eA TIME TO DANCE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHoping and Waiting\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI race upstairs,\u003cbr\u003ekick my sandals off outside our front door,\u003cbr\u003eburst into our apartment. “I’m in the finals!”\u003cbr\u003eMy grandmother, Paati,\u003cbr\u003esurges out of the kitchen like a ship in full sail,\u003cbr\u003eher white sari dazzling\u003cbr\u003ein the afternoon light that streams through our open windows.\u003cbr\u003eI fling my arms around her.\u003cbr\u003eDrink in the spicy-sweet basil-and-aloe scent of her soap.\u003cbr\u003ePaati doesn’t say congratulations. She doesn’t need to.\u003cbr\u003eI feel her words in the warmth of her hug.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“I knew you’d make it.” Pa plucks me\u003cbr\u003eout of Paati’s embrace into his arms.\u003cbr\u003e“Finals of what?” Ma says.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve only been talking\u003cbr\u003eabout the Bharatanatyam dance competition\u003cbr\u003efor months.\u003cbr\u003eMostly to Paati, and to Pa, but Ma’s hearing is perfect\u003cbr\u003eand we don’t live in a palace with soundproof walls.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePaati retreats into the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003ePaati’s told me she doesn’t think it’s her place\u003cbr\u003eto interfere with her son and daughter-in-law.\u003cbr\u003ePa’s eyes rove from Ma to me,\u003cbr\u003ecaught in the middle as always.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMa’s diamond earrings\u003cbr\u003e—the only reminder of her wealthy past—\u003cbr\u003eflash at me like angry eyes.\u003cbr\u003e“Veda, you need to study hard.\u003cbr\u003eIf you don’t do well in your exams this year—”\u003cbr\u003eFor once, my voice doesn’t stick in my throat. “I am studying hard.\u003cbr\u003eTo be a dancer.\u003cbr\u003eI’m not planning to become an engineer. Or a doctor.”\u003cbr\u003eOr any other profession Ma finds respectable.\u003cbr\u003eMa launches into her usual lecture. “Dancing is no career for a middle-class girl.\u003cbr\u003eYou need to study something useful in college so you can get a well-paid job.”\u003cbr\u003eI sigh extra-loud.\u003cbr\u003eMy dance teacher, Uday anna, isn’t rich. But\u003cbr\u003ehis house is larger than ours.\u003cbr\u003eClearly, he earns more than\u003cbr\u003eMa at her bank job and Pa at his library.\u003cbr\u003eMa goes on and on.\u003cbr\u003eBack when I was younger, I’d struggle to be better at school\u003cbr\u003efor Ma’s sake.\u003cbr\u003eBut numbers and letters soon grew too large for me to hold,\u003cbr\u003eand I grew far away from them\u003cbr\u003eand Ma grew out of patience.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePaati places steaming sojji, my favorite snack, on our table.\u003cbr\u003eThe sweet, buttery smell of cooked semolina is tempting\u003cbr\u003ebut I leave the plate untouched.\u003cbr\u003eMarch into the bedroom Paati and I share.\u003cbr\u003eSlam the door.\u003cbr\u003ePa knocks. Says, “Come out, Veda. Eat something.”\u003cbr\u003e“Leave her alone,” Ma says. “She knows where to find food if she’s hungry.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI probably shouldn’t have slammed the door.\u003cbr\u003eBut Ma never even said congratulations.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s never pretended my dancing made her happy.\u003cbr\u003eBut never has a performance mattered more to me\u003cbr\u003ethan being chosen for the finals of this competition.\u003cbr\u003eAll my life, Ma’s been\u003cbr\u003ehoping\u003cbr\u003eI’ll do well at science and mathematics\u003cbr\u003eso I could end up becoming what she wanted to be:\u003cbr\u003ean engineer.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll my life, I’ve been\u003cbr\u003ewaiting\u003cbr\u003efor her to appreciate my love\u003cbr\u003eof the one thing I excel at:\u003cbr\u003eBharatanatyam dance.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eSpeaking with Hands\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Steps came to you early. Speech came late,” Paati said.\u003cbr\u003eShe’d tell how she watched me pull myself up by the bars\u003cbr\u003eof my cradle at eight months,\u003cbr\u003eeager to toddle on my own two feet.\u003cbr\u003eMonths before others my age, she said,\u003cbr\u003eI could shape thoughts with my fingers.\u003cbr\u003eMy body wasn’t shy.\u003cbr\u003eWhile words stumbled in my throat,\u003cbr\u003elosing their way long before they reached my lips,\u003cbr\u003elike lotus buds blossoming, my hands spoke my first sentences\u003cbr\u003eshaping themselves into hasta mudras:\u003cbr\u003ethe hand symbols of Indian classical dance.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePaati said, “It was as if you remembered\u003cbr\u003ethe sign language of Bharatanatyam\u003cbr\u003efrom a previous life you’d lived as a dancer\u003cbr\u003ebefore being reincarnated as my granddaughter.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePaati always understood everything I said with my hands.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDance Practice\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m a palm tree swaying in a storm wind.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy dance teacher, Uday anna,\u003cbr\u003esits crosslegged on the ground\u003cbr\u003etapping beats out on\u003cbr\u003ehis hollow wooden block with a stick.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI leap and land on my sure feet,\u003cbr\u003eexcitement mounting as Uday anna’s rhythm speeds\u003cbr\u003echallenging me to repeat my routine faster.\u003cbr\u003eMy heels strike the ground fast as firesparks.\u003cbr\u003eStreams of sweat trickle down my neck.\u003cbr\u003eMy black braid lifts into the air, then whips around my waist.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNothing else fills me with as much elation\u003cbr\u003eas chasing down soaring music,\u003cbr\u003ecatching and pinning rhythms to the ground with my feet,\u003cbr\u003eproud as a hunter rejoicing in his skill.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe climax brings me to the hardest pose of all:\u003cbr\u003eBalancing on my left leg, I extend my right\u003cbr\u003eupward in a vertical split.\u003cbr\u003eThen I bend my right knee, bring my right foot near my ear\u003cbr\u003eshowing how, when an earring fell off as he danced,\u003cbr\u003eShiva picked it up with his toes\u003cbr\u003eand looped it back over his earlobe.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLocking my breath in my chest to keep from trembling,\u003cbr\u003eI push myself to hold the pose\u003cbr\u003efor an entire eight beat cycle.\u003cbr\u003eA familiar thrill shoots up my spine.\u003cbr\u003eI enjoy testing\u003cbr\u003emy stamina, my balance.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eUday anna’s stick clatters to the floor. He claps.\u003cbr\u003e“Pull that off and you’re sure to win.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBoth feet on the ground again, I piroutte and leap,\u003cbr\u003erejoicing in the speed at which\u003cbr\u003emy body obeys my mind’s commands,\u003cbr\u003ecelebrating my strong, skilled body—\u003cbr\u003ethe center and source of my joy,\u003cbr\u003ethe one thing I can count on,\u003cbr\u003ethe one thing that never fails me.","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303093194981,"sku":"NP9780147514400","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780147514400.jpg?v=1767720862","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-time-to-dance-isbn-9780147514400","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}