When I was nine, my cousin Bikash danced at a Tihar gathering. It was Deusi-Bhailo night. The courtyard was alive with drums, and he moved the way boys are not supposed to move: loose-limbed, eyes closed, completely surrendered to the beat. The room applauded for about ten seconds. Then an uncle laughed and said, “Look at him. He’s become a girl.”
Bikash stopped. He did not dance in public again for twenty years.
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