After a brief description of the danseur and the choreographer, the programme coordinator called out her name. She could hear her heart beating through her ribs, thumping as it would if she ran a race. All the stage lights were switched off and a single spotlight fell in the centre of the stage, where she was supposed to stand. She climbed the wobbly steps leading to the stage, her hand cold and a single drop of sweat at her nape. This was her first stage performance.
The audience applauded as she folded her hands, focussing on the wooden floor, centring herself to start. The music started and recognizing the folk song she was going to dance to, the people seated, jumped and clapped as someone whistled. She smiled and began her dance — the she had rehearsed day and night. With every move, her eyes raked the audience. Where was he? Her mind questioned. He was at work during every rehearsal but had promised to see her first performance. The smile on her face played hide and seek. What if he was stuck in traffic and could not attend? What if something more important that the dance had come up? A part of her mind was echoing negatives while the other part concentrated on the music and the dance. Her nimble feet tapped and her slender waist swayed as the audience went into frenzy.  But her eyes darted from left to right, searching for him.
The beats quickened and so did her steps and in the crowd, suddenly she caught a familiar face. He was seated on the ground at the edge of the hall, his feet folded and clapping in sync with the tune. He was enjoying himself. Her eyes locked with his and his lips turned upwards. That smile, the one that made her heart melt and forced her to move quicker, and at every whirl that she had to take, her gazed ended on his face. The stubble was there and she noticed that he had worn her favourite shirt. Her heart soared and she was elated. The applause reached a crescendo. She had to complete the last few steps before she could fling herself in his arms. His comforting arms would envelop her in an embrace that was loving and secure. Her heart was beating faster. 
The music stopped. She bowed and jumped down the stage and into his open arms. He smelt of ‘Old Spice’, she had seen him splash it every morning before he left for work. She rested her head for a while on his broad shoulder and permitted the thumping to normalize. Pulling away from him, she asked, “Did I dance well, papa?”
“Of course, my little girl,” he replied. “You made no mistakes and you were splendid.”
He kissed her forehead and held her around her dainty waist, his palm wound around like a glove. His seven-year old girl danced on the stage for the first time, a solo performance. He had always dreamt of it, since the day she was born; a bony fair child with a wisp of light brown hair. His angel. His pride.