The Young India

Kartikey Sehgal

[Fiction]

I dance to Tango. Only, I don’t know what it is. I had seen it once, in some movie. They raise their skirts, maybe they do. But that’s not the reason I liked Tango. The song had a bitter-sweet quality; like you celebrate the birth of a baby while reminiscing about your lover’s death. While the heart sings for the baby, the mind wishes the olden moments of love.

The dance watchers—who don’t dance—clap for the dancers. Then they are inadvertently drawn …