39: The Legend of Smith 202

The sun was low in the sky, casting long, golden fingers across the Georgia Tech campus as Bharath stepped out of Sarah’s house with his costume bouncing against his hip. The air smelled of fallen leaves, fried food from the campus vendors, and something faintly metallic - the buzz of electricity, of anticipation.

They were dancing in the Diwali show. Tonight. It still didn’t feel real.

Behind him, the screen door clattered as Jorge stumbled out, fiddling with a Discman clipped to his jeans. “You think they’ll let me bring this on stage if I hide it in my kurta?”

“No,” Camila said flatly, following close behind with a folded dupatta in hand. “And if you trip during the partner spin again, I’m going to kill you.”

“Fair,” Jorge muttered. “But also - there are like five hundred seats in the Ferst Center. We’re not ready.”

“You aren’t ready,” Ravi corrected, appearing from the side porch. “I am and have been the moment. Right Nandita?”

Tyrel scoffed. “You’re the comic relief, Ravi.”

“Wrong. I’m the star.”

“Alright,” Sarah called, keys jingling in her hand as she locked up. “Let’s go. Our practice window is from six to seven. We’ve got twenty minutes to get there, unpack, and not fall off the stage.”

Marisol emerged last with Mia in tow, their matching hair bouncing with each step. Marisol was dressed casually in jeans and a tank under a zip-up sweater. Mia wore flared slacks and a crop top under a corduroy jacket. The second Mia locked eyes with Bharath, she flushed. For tonight, she was just Marisol’s “baby sister visiting from high school” - and that meant playing it cool. No affectionate touches. No dreamy sighs. She looked away before she could give anything away. Camila was able to read her way too easily. They vibed with one another very easily. She had already bugged Mia saying that something was different about her.

The group walked in two clusters, laughing and shoving each other down the edge of Cherry Street as the sun began to dip into a deep orange.

“This your first Diwali thing too?” Camila asked Sarah.

“First one I’m dancing in,” Sarah said, glancing at Bharath with a fond smile. “But I got the best crash course about Diwali this morning.”

“Oh?” Camila raised an eyebrow.

“Mmhmm,” she said, nudging Bharath’s arm playfully. “Our professor here gave a whole masterclass while ... inspiring us.”

Marisol snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Bharath blushed but added softly, “It’s a celebration of coming home. Of surviving darkness. In the South of India, it’s also about Krishna’s triumph. But it’s primarily all about light.”

“It’s about coming home,” Mia murmured, almost to herself.

The group fell silent for a beat, caught in the moment. Even with the cold breeze brushing past them, something warm settled in their chests. It wasn’t just the anticipation of the stage lights or the buzz of dancing in front of strangers. It came with a flicker of meaning that went beyond steps and costumes. They didn’t know the stories the way Bharath did, didn’t grow up with oil lamps in every window or sparklers burning against a blackened sky festooned with fireworks. But tonight, they were part of it all.

Camila let out a small sigh and looped her arm through Jorge’s. “You better not trip on me out there, Romeo.”

Jorge smirked. “Only if it’s into your arms.”

“You are so corny,” she said, but she didn’t let go.

Tyrel, who had been mostly quiet since they turned the corner toward the Ferst Center, finally exhaled a sharp breath. “Man. I swear if one of y’all forgets the moves, I’m moonwalking off that stage.”

LaTasha rolled her eyes. “You better not embarrass me in this borrowed lehenga, Ty. I had to pin the waist to keep it from sliding off my hips.”

“I’ll hold it up with pride, girl. Belt it with love.”

They all broke into laughter again, the spell lifting just enough to let in the breeze and chatter of campus. Cyclists whizzed past, a couple of kids ran across the lawn laughing, and overhead, string lights were already blinking to life.

Bharath felt Marisol’s hand slide into his as they approached the theater entrance. She wasn’t looking at him, but her grip tightened as if she needed something solid to hold onto. Sarah walked just ahead, arms crossed over her jacket, but kept glancing back with a grin that hadn’t left her face since that morning. Mia followed slightly behind them, her headphones tucked away for once, clutching a small notebook and trying not to fidget too obviously with the hem of her jacket.

She had barely said a word since they left Sarah’s house.

Bharath slowed his steps just slightly, enough for Mia to catch up beside him. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just ... watching.”

He didn’t press her. He didn’t need to.

The Ferst Center loomed ahead, its sharp angles and glass facade glowing in the early evening light. It looked like a portal to something more polished than any of them had ever done - a world of real stages, real spotlights, real expectations. A world that, up until a month ago, had felt light years away for Bharath.

Rishi, the frazzled grad student coordinating the lineup for the Indian Student Association, was waiting by the back entrance with a clipboard and a chai in a Styrofoam cup.

“You are the dance crew, right?” he said, waving them over.

“Georgia Tech freshmen and one junior and high schooler,” Nandita confirmed, smoothing the edge of her long skirt. “We’re the third act.”

“You’ve got forty-five minutes. The sound crew needs to start setting up for real after that. Just use the portable system and don’t go off the lip - we had a dancer fall into the pit last year.”

Jorge looked nervous. “Did he or she survive?”

“Landed in the timpani. Not gracefully.”

They filed inside through the side door, the cold burst of air conditioning hitting them like a slap after the Georgia dusk. The backstage area was cluttered with folded chairs, unplugged light rigs, and garment racks lined with sequined kurtas and embroidered saris. A couple of older students in salwar kameezes were already stretching by the far wall, barefoot, unfazed.

They weren’t even wearing rehearsal clothes. These were Diwali veterans.

“Do you need to get changed or run it as-is?” Rishi called.

“As-is,” Sarah said quickly, already plugging in the boombox they’d lugged in from her house. They ran their mix from a burnt CD: a cobbled-together medley of “Muqabala,” “Chhaiya Chhaiya,” and some bhangra loops Nandita’s cousin mailed her on a TDK cassette.

Marisol dropped her bag and looked around the stage. “This is huge.”

Sarah turned to Bharath. “You okay?”

He looked up at the high seats, the velvet rows stacked like waves above them. “I think I might puke.”

“Just don’t puke on me during the dance,” she said cheerfully.

They laughed, but it was the kind of laughter people made when they were one heartbeat away from screaming.

The lights over the stage weren’t on full brightness yet - just the dusty overhead fluorescents and a few mounted spotlights the tech crew hadn’t adjusted. The stage looked enormous since it was empty. It was terrifying.

Nandita clapped once. “Let’s go. Run one - mark your steps. We’re here to map space so we know where to dance.”

They all scattered into place as Nandita’s voice rang with that familiar, bossy glee that made her sound half like a choreographer, half like a cricket umpire. Camila and Mia stepped forward without hesitation, their earrings already off, ponytails bouncing as they took center with an ease that made the rest of the girls fall naturally into place behind them. They were the storm in this performance - the centerpiece of every sharp step, every swirl of color, every hip snap and dramatic drop.

Even without the full costumes, even without the ankle bells or kohl-lined eyes, Camila and Mia commanded attention the moment they moved. Their bodies knew the beat before the beat began. Camila’s footwork was precise, lethal even, like she had invisible strings tied to the rhythm. Mia, younger, hungrier, danced with an edge - like she had something to prove and every muscle in her body was willing to go to war for it.

Bharath tried to focus on spacing and counts, but watching Mia in this mode - eyes blazing, hips fluid, every movement laced with quiet fury and joy - was impossible to ignore. Her smile was all fire. She wasn’t trying to blend in. She was trying to conquer.

Behind them, the other girls - Sarah, Marisol, Nandita, and LaTasha - fell into their patterns like the scaffolding of the performance. They were sharp, quick, always in sync. Their job wasn’t to outshine. It was to frame, and they did it like a work of art. Their arms sliced through the air as Mia spun low and Camila leapt up, timed so perfectly it looked choreographed by fate.

The music blasted out of the battered boombox as the medley of ‘Muqabala’ transitioned into a looped Punjabi beat. Ravi and Jorge, along with Tyrel and Bharath, stepped in for the mid-section. Their job wasn’t to steal focus - it was to break the pacing, throw in jumps and waves and simple lifts that gave the girls a rest before reclaiming the center.

Bharath felt absurd. His arm movements were fine, his rhythm okay, but every time Mia or Camila darted forward and pulled attention with a glance or a flip of their hair, he felt like a backup dancer in his own culture’s festival - which didn’t bother him. It gladdened his heart to see his girls and his friends take to his culture and give it so much importance.

Tyrel hammed it up, grinning like he was in a boy band video. Jorge focused on the formations like he was solving a physics equation in real time. Ravi almost dropped a scarf again, but recovered by laughing and tossing it into the wings.

And through it all, Mia and Camila never broke character. Never missed a beat. The spins. The hip rolls. The arms. The glances timed to the tabla drop.

By the time they hit the freeze at the end of the first run, the air was hot with sweat and disbelief.

Camila dropped to her knees with a grin. “Dios mío. That was the sloppiest perfection I’ve ever done.”

“I think I saw God,” Sarah wheezed.

LaTasha fanned herself with both hands. “Mia, girl. I felt that hip drop in my ovaries.”

Mia didn’t respond. She was still catching her breath, hands on her thighs, lips parted. Her cheeks were flushed, her pulse visible just beneath the skin of her neck. Her hair stuck slightly to her face but she didn’t bother brushing it back. She just turned her head toward Bharath. He was watching her with his mouth slightly open. She was glad that he liked to watch her dance. She was especially proud that she could impress him dancing in clothes and songs from his culture. Sarah and Marisol may have started early - but she was determined to catch up.

For a second, neither of them looked away.

“Alright!” Nandita shouted. “Hydrate and let’s do this again from the top one more time before they kick us out.”

Everyone broke formation. Jorge headed for the water fountain. Ravi flopped on the edge of the stage. Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor, digging through her bag for the almond trail mix she always carried.

Mia walked to the wings slowly, sipping from her bottle. Marisol joined her, nudging her gently.

“You okay?”

Mia nodded, still panting slightly. “Feels good.”

“You were insane.”

Mia smiled faintly. “You think he saw?”

Marisol didn’t answer. She just smirked and passed her a small compact mirror. “Sweetheart, everyone saw.”

Behind them, Camila was helping Tyrel fix the folds of his kurta. Nandita was taping a loose spot on the boombox with two bandaids. Bharath stood alone near the stage curtains, running through his steps, half-practicing, half trying to get his heart rate down. He was already drenched, the sleeves of his cotton shirt dark with sweat.

“Back in formation!” Nandita called, clapping again like a coach summoning her team.

This time, the second run felt sharper. Surer. Camila added a wink in the mirror sequence that made half the group whistle. Mia slowed down her arm sweep during the dhol chorus and turned it into a near-tease that had Sarah stifling a laugh mid-move. Even the backup boys hit their jumps more cleanly this time - well, except for Ravi, who slipped and then tried to style it out like it was planned.

When they hit the final group pose, panting and shining under the stale lights, there was no applause. Just silence. Exhaustion. And pride.

Mia turned slowly to the empty rows of the auditorium. Her chest was heaving. Her wrists still tingled from the bangles she would wear later. Her cheeks burned, but not from exertion.

She had done that. They all had.

And tonight? They’d do it again. Louder. Brighter. In full costume, under real lights, in front of hundreds of people. But for now, she looked to Bharath - who was still watching her, eyes dark with something deeper than awe.

Respect. Hunger. Maybe something like worship.

Arvind Patel was sweating through his kurta.

It was not just because it was polyester or that the backstage AC had decided to die dramatically just after the second group rehearsed their kathak number, but because his pager had gone off six times in the last ten minutes.

Each time, it buzzed with a new level of existential crisis.

He paced back and forth behind the stage curtain, holding a folded list of performers in one hand and the ISA’s Nokia 5110 in the other, furiously flipping its antenna in and out like that like it would somehow help the signal.

“Dude,” said Karan, one of the junior organizers, as he peeked out the side door. “There’s a line outside.”

Arvind stopped pacing. “Yeah, it’s a Diwali show. There’s always a line.”

“No, bro. This one wraps around the building. Down Ferst Drive. Some people brought lawn chairs. There’s a guy with a boombox playing Snoop Dogg songs from his car trunk.”

“Okay, so?”

“So they’re ... not Indian. Or professors. Or aunties. Or anyone who’s ever come to a Diwali show before. Someone brought a poster with Bharath’s face on it and the words ‘Brown Sugar Daddy’”

Arvind blinked. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

Karan held up a digital camera. “Do you want a picture or...”

“No I do not want a picture, Karan!”

He spun in place, panicked. “How many seats do we even have?”