"Absolutely not," she said immediately.
"Too late," said Mrs. Apte. "We were following you."
There was a general affirmation from the group. Vikram, who was near the back, said nothing but was watching her with the specific attention of someone seeing a thing they recognised but couldn't immediately name.
She led the warm-up. She did not exactly dance during it — she counted and demonstrated, the way she used to stand at the board and write and speak simultaneously, and the group moved, and the moving was good. Freddy watched with his arms crossed and the particular satisfaction of a teacher watching someone else teach well, which is a specific and generous pleasure.
After class, on the bench, Vikram said: "You've done that before."
"Taught? Yes. Not Zumba. English."
"Not the subject. The way you did it. The counting thing. The way you made everyone feel like they could follow."
She looked at the gulmohar tree. "It's the same skill," she said. "Teaching Shakespeare and teaching salsa. You have to make the person feel like the thing is already inside them and you're just drawing it out. Not putting something foreign in. Drawing something familiar out."
Vikram was quiet for a moment. "You should teach again."
"I'm retired."
