Page 108 of Mrs. Rathore

AVNI

The cold wooden floor pressed against my bare feet, once a grounding comfort. Today, it just felt cold. I stood before the mirror, my reflection dim under the soft studio lights. Around me, the gentle jingle of ghungroos echoed from other dancers. The air was laced with the usual blend of incense and dust that always made this place feel like a second home.

But today, it felt like a ghost of what it once was.

I sat on the floor, trying to steady my trembling hands as I tied the knots of my ghungroos. Each tug of the thread felt like a battle, not against the fabric but against the tremor that had taken root deep inside me. I took a shaky breath and rose to my feet.

The rhythm of the tabla began. A beat I’d known since childhood. A rhythm that once lived inside me like a second heartbeat. I moved into position as my arms lifted and ankles aligned. But as I began the first spin, my limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and unsure.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back.

Still, I tried again. One spin, then two. But my foot slipped. I stumbled, breaking the fluidity of the group. Around me, the other dancers moved gracefully, their ghungroos singing in perfect harmony.

I just stood there, out of place, unraveling in the middle of the stage.

My throat tightened, a familiar ache building behind my ribs.

“Feel the rhythm in your heart, beta, and dance with your soul.”

Her voice. My mother’s voice. It was soft but unwavering, a memory that rang louder than the music. It used to guide me. Now, it cut me.

I blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears. But they rose anyway. I turned away from the mirror, fleeing to the safety of the corner. My knees buckled as I sank to the floor. My face fell into my hands, my shoulders shaking as I tried to silence the sobs.

But one escaped... quiet and broken.

The music continued, but I couldn’t hear it anymore. It felt like it belonged to someone else's life now.

A gentle hand touched my shoulder. I looked up, startled, to find my instructor, Anita Ma’am. She was kneeling beside me. Her eyes were soft, her face etched with concern and quiet understanding.

“Avni,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “it’s okay to take a break.”

My lips parted. The words felt jagged in my throat.

“I thought… I thought dancing would help me feel normal again.” My voice cracked as I spoke. “But everything and every single beat just reminds me of her.”

Anita Ma’am nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” she said gently. “Grief doesn’t follow rules. Let yourself feel it. Your dance will find its way back to you when your heart is ready.”

Tears spilled freely now, and I let them. I nodded, wiping the corners of my eyes with trembling fingers. Then I curled into myself, knees to chest, letting the grief crash over me in waves I no longer tried to resist.

The dance could wait.

My heart needed time to breathe.

It had been six months since Maa passed, but sometimes it felt like only yesterday.

The memory came like a punch—sudden and merciless. Her face in that hospital bed, drained of all color, her chest rising and falling in painful shudders. Her eyes, which were once so alive, had become glassy, distant, and full of an agony that no words could contain. It felt like her soul was trapped in a fragile body that refused to let go.

I remembered the phone call from Papa. He rarely ever sounded afraid, but that night, his voice cracked as he told me to come quickly.

“She’s in an emergency,” he said. “Her condition worsened suddenly.”

I had rushed to the hospital, my heart pounding with denial.

The doctor had warned me just a few weeks earlier: "Prepare yourself. Her time may be near." But how could I prepare for something like that? How do you start letting go of the person who gave you life?

I had ignored it, choosing instead to hold onto hope, however blind and cruel.