She of the Mountains by Vivek Shraya Read Free Book Online

in silence.
    Ganesh, what are you doing, son?
    After three rounds, he finally responds, panting.
    Dearest Uma and Pita … you are my earth. You are my world.
    I put my hand on my chest and sigh. Shiv stands to embrace Ganesh.
    Oh, beloved son. You have demonstrated how a loving heart and a wise mind can surpass any physical prowess. From this day forward, no prayer or journey may commence without acquiring your blessing first. I name you Lord of the Lords.

Do you want to look at the stars tonight? she asked.
    He responded with an enthusiastic yes into the receiver.
    This had become one of their cherished pastimes. She would drive them somewhere secluded, usually by the man-made pond behind the Millwoods sign, and park the car. They would recline their seats, and instead of looking through the sunroof that her car did not have, they would stare at the grey fuzzy roof and let the currents circulate.
    His mixtape through her tape deck.
    The lyrics onto her lips,
    the melody lingering in her throat.
    Her voice in his ears, quickening his pulse, shooting down
    into his left palm covering her left thumb.
    Their breathing united in a growing fog.
    On the nights that they wanted more from the music, to twist their bodies into each other against a hard and constant beat, they went dancing. It was awkward at first, going to The Only Local Gay Bar together as a couple. But he preferred being in a space where his moves weren’t limited to the general male domain of shoulder shrugging and head bopping, where he could transfer the reins of his body to the music without worrying about getting called sissy , and she felt relieved to be in a space where she wasn’t having to give the phone number of the local pizza delivery to men who asked her breasts out, so it kind of worked out.
    In addition to stargazing and dancing, in the past four months there had been road trips to Calgary, the exchange of birthday presents, secrets, sweat, and spit, and the finishing of each other’s sentences. She complained about the latter, worrying about what it meant to have someone else so attuned to the very private sanctum of her internal dialogue.
    He worried too.
    After every day they spent together, it became easier to envision another day and harder to endure the days apart. On days when he was less careful, he allowed himself to daydream. Who could they be outside their parents’ homes? Who could they be outside of university? Maybe they would move to Vancouver; she loved the ocean, and he loved every city that wasn’t Edmonton.
    But the graver question for him was one that loomed throughout his daydreams, diffusing them: But aren’t I gay?
    If he were gay, something had to be missing between them, even though, when he examined his heart, looking for gaps, inconsistencies, or moments of unhappiness, it appeared fuller now than it had ever been. So he examined her.
    What about him? He pointed at the man wearing the faded baseball hat, crossing the street ahead of them.
    No way. He looks like Joey from Friends.
    What about him? He looks like your type.
    What is my type?
    He imagined her much happier with an older, smarter, bulkier man, a professor. She would live with him in a spacious, sunlit loft in Montreal, with a wall of philosophy and science books. His name would be Bernard or a hyphenated French name like Jean-Luc or Marc-André. Bernard would wear rugby sweaters and thick framed glasses and could confidently converse about cars and hockey with her brother and dad.
    Don’t you wish I was more manly? he asked.
    You are a man, she responded.
    No, but like … a real man. A man that doesn’t know all the words to The Little Mermaid soundtrack. A man that isn’t attracted to other men.
    I love when we sing together. And being attracted to other men doesn’t make you less of a man. It’s actually pretty hot.
    You know what I mean …
    No, I don’t.
    When she didn’t give him the answer he