On a Saturday afternoon, I walked through the crowded pathway leading to the doorway of her garage. I entered in, smelling the strong aroma of indian food.

Maybe samosas or pakodas. I came a little early so I just started doodling on a piece of paper. It was a simple drawing most girls did in their free time. It was flower with petals going on and on, repeating itself, in a circular motion. A woman approached me. She had thick, curly hair. She always wore a big red bindi and a fancy indian suit with it.“Where are your gungurus? Quickly! Class is going to begin in 2 minutes!” I got up,  putting the gungurus in a hurry, but then, like always, turning out horribly.

“Thaa, thei, thei dhat, Ah, thei, thei, dhat. Come on, come on you guys can do better. Faster, faster, keep the rhythm up!”

“Ughh. 1, 2 ,3 ,4,   5, 6 ,7 ,8 ” I used to say, struggling. We all had little bells on our feet called, “gunguru,” but they consistently fell. I bended down, trying to tie it again for like the fifth time, when my dance teacher appeared,

“Pearl, do you need help, that’s what I’m here for. What about your footwork or maybe your timing? I mean, you’re doing fine.” I used to struggle, but according to her I was “doing fine.” I never liked dance class, I mean sure, at the beginning it was fun and all, but it just never clicked. It's not like I didn’t like the students or my dance teacher, it's just... that I never liked, in general, dancing. My dance teacher was a very kind, and a passionate person. She was probably the nicest teacher I knew. The dance area was quite small, it was literally done in her garage, the floor was a bit dirty and looked “used,” and it always used to be so crowded there. She had this old recording machine with many cassettes, full of kathak and bollywood music and every time we would listen to the same song, repeatedly.

The more I went, the less interested I became. I wanted to tell my mom. I was on my way to dance class, already in a bad mood. My family was in the car listening to a  popular hindi song. I had a little, adorable brother who loved songs. He always lip sang and swayed whenever he heard a song he liked. We were about to park in front of my dance teachers garage, we were pretty much already there. Since I already was in a bad mood, I really didn’t feel like going. I was a short, little, scrawny girl who also had no self confidence. I thought if I told my mom, it would hurt her feelings, and it was my nature to not give someone grief. I really couldn't handle it anymore. Then I broke it to her.
“I don’t want to go to dance class,” I said murmuring. Then I said it louder, yelling.
“I don’t want to go to dance class. I want to do art!”

All of the sudden I broke into tears and then my two year old brother also started crying, I don’t think it was because I was crying, but because I interrupted the song. Then he turned his head and did that weird stare of his.

“What, I - I don’t understand…” My mother said,  shocked and a bit concerned .

“I DON’T WANT TO DO DANCE ANYMORE!” Now saying it loosing my breath.
“Okay, but at least come to this class,” she said just to pull my leg. My mom was a very sympathetic and understanding person. She would do anything for me.

I remember going to art class very clearly. Our whole family went and we were all in a good mood. My parents were laughing and that same popular hindi song was playing again and again my brother started lip singing and swaying, but that didn’t bother me, I WAS GOING TO ART CLASS. It was pretty far. At that time it was in San Jose. I hated “long” car rides, I felt like throwing up even though it was only twenty miles away. Especially when I ride on planes, I would feel nauseous. On car rides for some reason, I just look out the window looking at the streets or the houses. I started smiling and grinning like I adopted a new puppy.
Flipping his long curly hair, my brother asked, “Why are you smiling,”
“I don’t know,” even though I knew exactly why. That feeling could never be replaced, the joy, the happiness; I felt like I was snuggling a huge teddy bear.

We finally reached there, though it wasn’t as I expected. It was a bit small, and looked like it was going bankrupt. There was a banner, looked hand made, that said in huge capital words,“YOUNG AT ART” When I entered the building I smelled, a strong odor of oil. The ground was DIRTY, even dirtier than dance class. There were many thick splotches of paint that covering the floor, it looked like no one ever cleaned up here. On my left side, there was a girl painting a beautiful oceanscape and on my right, there was a painting of Mickey Mouse in a wizard costume, which I became really fond of.

A tall, six feet woman came up to my family. She was caucasian and had thick red - brown hair. Because of my shy nature, the whole time I looked down at her shoes.

“My name is Lidiya, I’ll be her new art teacher,” she reached out to reach my dads hand.

“Pawan,” then to my moms.

“Archana.”

“Would she like to join this art class?” Our whole family nodded.

“Since she is only 5 years old so, she should go to the beginner class. Seven and under,” she said professionally.

“Okay,” my dad said, a bit lost.

We slowly walked forward. We all turned our heads, right, left, right, left, in curiousity. We entered in a small room, where kids my age were. Everyone was either talking or doodling.

“What is your name?” Lidiya asked.

“Pearl,” I muttered.

“So... I want you to color this worksheet over here. Is that okay?”

“Okay,” I said nodding my head.

The worksheet was a cartoon figure of a woman, already drawn, but needed to be colored in. I already knew how to shade, unlike other kids, so I started to color. My whole family and Lidiya just stood there, observing what I was doing and how I’m doing it. Most of the kids stopped talking and started to stare at me too.

“I am done,” I said unsurely.

She took the paper just started to stare at it  awkwardly, a lot like my brother. Maybe she was trying to figure what I did wrong or how to make it better.

“Your daughter doesn’t need to be here, she already knows how to shade and what tones to use. Instead of being in the beginner class with kids five to seven years of age, your daughter could go to the oil painting class with the older people.”

“Mrs. and Mr. Raina, the class is from 3:30 to 5:30, so I think Pearl and I will take it from here.” Apparently, Lidiya was the art teacher for oil painting too. I finished my first painting in 2 hours, which was the whole class session. It was a silhouette of a flower, a Lupinus Rivularis, in the sunset. When my parents came back, they were in complete shock. I was still doing the finishing touches on the flower and the bushes, when

“Did she do this?” My mom asked in disbelief.

“Mhm,” Lidiya said cheerfully.

“Wow…”  My dad exclamed.

“Can we take the painting home?” My mom said. She was a really “show off,” type of mother. I could tell by her face gestures that she wanted to show everybody. 

“Um, not yet, because this is oil paint it takes about a week to dry.”

“Oh, okay.”

She put back the painting on the shelf where many other paintings sat too. I cleaned up my brushes and placed the pallet in the back of the room. My mom took a picture, click, and immediately posted it on Facebook. I bet she couldn’t wait a whole week.

I leaned over to my mom to see what she was typing. The caption read, in that motherly, boastingly tone:

“My lovely daughter painted this in only two hours. God Bless. I hope she will thrive in art.” I started laughing and making fun of my mom on how gloaty that sounded. I pushed the stiff door open and waved at Lidiya goodbye. I hugged my parents, hoping I would come again. That single moment changed my life forever. From that day on, I knew I had a passion for art and longed to pursue my dream.