by Vivek Shraya
Unfortunately, he was unable to accurately deduce what behaviours or interests belonged exclusively to girls, and therefore the whipping continued, determined to debilitate. The you’re gay at the school assembly after he performed a pitch-perfect rendition of Vanessa Williams’ “Save the Best for Last” muted the notes in his throat and the urge to create melody. The you’re gay when he worked on his math homework in the loner corner of the cafeteria ensured that his concentration was shaken and consequently, that the most he would ever achieve in class would be Average.
The greatest blow was when you’re gay found itself on the tongues of his friends, concealed in the form of a question.
Ugh, those guys won’t leave me alone! I hate boys! he ranted into his parents’ wooden duck-shaped phone.
So, are you gay? his friend Rosie Cipher responded coolly.
What? Why? What does that have to do with anything?!
Well, you just said you hate boys. Maybe it’s because you are attracted to them?
Attracted to boys?
His frustration subsided and turned to sickness. How could she have known that he did, in fact, think of Josh Madison, the class clown with the football-player build whose locker was conveniently across from his, when he jerked off? Did she know that he also thought about Rochelle Hunter, the wannabe prom queen with the breasts everyone wanted—perfectly round and noticeable, but not Hollywood excessive—or that, whenever the new girl from Lethbridge, the one with the labret piercing and the leopard-print jacket that she never took off, said his name, a bolt of heat shot up his lower spine?
He was beginning to understand that the parameters of you’re gay existed beyond his body and extended to the very core of his desire. And if you’re gay somehow named and shamed his specific desires, this had to mean that they were different. No one else was attracted to both boys and girls. His desires must be wrong.
Soon after, he caught a passing mention of the gay gene on the radio show that his dad listened to every morning. He put down his spoon and watched the O-shaped cereal swell up with milk, mirroring the swelling of his stomach. If indeed there was genetic printing, if the gay instruction existed at the molecular level, he feared that his condition festered deeper than he had imagined. Why had his parents not warned him about this defect they had passed on to him? Were there others in his family like him? Perhaps his cousin in India, the famous Bharata Natyam dancer, had the gay gene too? He knew these were questions he could never ask. His parents would never want to discuss the gay gene, especially in relation their son. And regardless, it was too late. He remembered the double-helix structure of DNA he had been shown in biology class and thought how appropriate that it looked like a chain.
What else could he do but return his surveillance to his body, which now appeared to him as ugly—and appropriately so. He told himself that every zit on his cheeks, forehead, nose, shoulders, and back was a punishment he deserved for the abnormality beneath his skin. He blamed his hands and their desire for touch, and in response, his hands lost their desire to touch his body at night. He tried to forget about his wrong penis, disgusted by both its misdirected longing when erect and its pathetic floppiness when soft, and in response, his penis shrivelled up, forgetting about him.
He wished that the you’re gays would forget him too. And in a way, they had. He began to hear the words even without words—in the chuckling in the mall food court, the murmurs behind him in the theatre, the staring on Whyte Avenue, and even in the silence of his bedroom, in his very own breath. He wondered about their hatred, which had become his hatred. Where did hatred reside? What did it look like? Was there a “hate gene” too? Was it the antithesis to the gay gene, its nemesis? Was it the cure? How could both genes coexist in one body, in his body? It seemed to him that one trait would have to recede at some point and the other express its dominance.
He stopped going to class regularly and was silent when he did attend, his hands rolled into fists in his lap even if he knew the answers. He stopped signing up for extracurricular activities, stopped spending so much time with his mother, and stopped seeking pleasure altogether. His world was reduced to bare necessity. Home was where he slept and ate, and school was where he learned.
He graduated from high school amorphous, his teenage body and its vast possibilities left on the unpaved field where it was first attacked.
Ganesh! Ganaphathi! Gadhadhara!
Seeing my lifeless child on the doorstep where he had been on guard, what else can I do but cry his name over and over again? His name and new names, future pet names I didn’t have the luxury of giving him, in the hope that one of them will reach him, wherever he is, and bring him back to me.
Vingavinashaya! Vinayaka! Vishwamukha! Vingeshwara!
I stop at the sound of my own name.
Parvati, my love … You knew this boy?
I turn around, and there is Shiv, back from hunting, his blue hue almost purple now.
He was my own, my beloved, my son, I wail.
Your son? Our son? But how?
I laugh at the redundancy of the question. He remembers. He remembers who I am and looks away. I follow his eyes to where his trishul, his weapon of choice, lies.
You? You did this?
I stand up and the sun sinks.
He would not let me in. I didn’t know. How could I have known?
YOU?
He looks down. I close my eyes while the greatest betrayal buries itself beside my greatest loss. For a moment, it is as though all of the divine matter that makes up my form—stardust and intention—has dissolved, and I am pure, condensed feeling. Is this what it is like to be human?
Shiv is now on his knees, trying to bring the body and head together, as though such an obvious gesture is enough to revive Ganesh. How dare he? This demonstration of arrogance fuels me. Without contemplation, my feet begin to beat the ground, my body lifting and landing, cracking the walls and pillars that hold together our abode with the abundant force of my grief. I will bring every mountain down and raise every ocean, for without life, the life of my perfect child, there can only be destruction. Without Ganesh, there can be no Parvati, just Shiva.
I stop at the sound of my name. It is a name I have never been called before, but instinctively I recognize it as my own: Uma.
I turn around, and there he is, on his feet, standing, smiling. My Ganesh, alive, with the head of an elephant.
Gajanana! Gajakarna! Gajavakra! Vakratunda!
He didn’t expect to feel this way.
He didn’t expect to feel at all. But during the extended six-month break before university and his self-imposed exile from others, save for his family, his body’s natural drive to regenerate solidified him into a new shape.
He and his body were now frenemies: His body provided him with services, getting him from point A to point B, and he, on good days, provided his body with motivation, a reason to get from point A to point B. They tolerated each other. Together, they had learned to tolerate the remaining you’re gays—the ones that still appeared occasionally at the grocery store and in his dreams—until they became synonymous with I’m gay.
It was strange, at first, to label his new self with a word that had been used as a weapon against him. But his new body still felt old curiosities that he found increasingly difficult to suppress.
The first time he said the words aloud, I think I’m gay, he ducked, expecting retribution from his brother or the ceiling or the walls around them.
Oh. That’s cool, Shanth said.
It is? He looked up.
I mean, you’re my brother. I love you. It doesn’t change anything.
It doesn’t?
It just means now you can tell me if my butt looks good in jeans.
After telling his brother, each time he said I’m gay it felt a little easier. He found that all of the characteristics that had set him apart from the other boys were conveniently explained and compartmentalized under
I’M GAY
Tori Amos fan/Watches Beverly Hills, 90210/Wears eyeliner/Shops at The Gap/Likes to cook/Adores Mom/Has mostly female friends/Sings all the time
No justification necessary. Just a simple I’m gay. There wasn’t much more that anyone wanted to say or do to him once he used their language.
When he told Sophie Reinhart, I’m gay, she squealed as though she had unwrapped her dream present on her birthday, and said he had to meet her friend, The Only Other Gay in Edmonton.
You will have so much in common!
The Only Other Gay loved being gay. The Only Other Gay had his own apartment and his own gay boyfriend and a stack of gay jeans that hit the ceiling. This made him feel even more self-conscious about his single pair of Levi’s. Orange Tabs. Social suicide.
The Only Other Gay knew everything about being gay. Conversation generally centred around words like top, bottom, cut, uncut and questions like Who does your hair? and What is your favourite Madonna CD? He found out that he was a bottom because of his slender build and feminine features and would get used to having penises up his bum even if the thought terrified him. He wondered how gay he could really be when he couldn’t relate to anything he was learning about his supposed self. For instance, what did circumcision have to do with being gay?
He also learned that a gay with no community is a lonely gay. This had to be true because he often felt incredibly lonely, even for friendship. Community meant going to The Only Local Gay Bar every Saturday night, where apparently, even more gays existed. It wasn’t until he went to The Only Local Gay Bar with The Only Other Gay and watched as head after head turned and eye after eye stared at his new friend that he understood exactly why The Only Other Gay loved being gay. This place was the exact opposite of the world outside the bar—here it was possible to be liked.
Since he had been given the impression that The Only Local Gay Bar was exclusively for men, he was surprised to see women there.
She is pretty … I kind of want to talk to her, he said.
About what? Where her shoes are from? The Only Other Gay snapped.
Do you think she likes boys? he asked, ignoring The Only Other Gay’s sarcasm.
The Only Other Gay laughed.
Honey, we all liked girls at one point. But the Bi Highway always leads to Gaytown.
Perhaps The Only Other Gay, who was clearly an expert on Gaytown, was right. He never mentioned women again. Instead, he focused on becoming the best gay he could be: his T-shirts got tighter and brighter, and he hoped that he too could one day command the same approval The Only Other Gay received.
Lately, though, something was happening inside his body, despite the I’m gay. He didn’t immediately recognize it as attraction because transitioning from you’re gay into I’m gay had also allowed him to stop having to think about, question, and sometimes be ashamed of his desires. I’m gay simplified them, reminding him that he desired boys and could wholeheartedly trust his renewed centralized hardening as The Measuring Stick.
But his body walked a bit faster every morning, the closer he got to work, hoping that the office would be empty so he could enjoy a private, deep inhale when he was welcomed by the lingering citrus scent of her perfume.
The sun rises and sets ten times before I finally let go of my son. I would keep holding him if his new ears didn’t occasionally slap my face with their natural flapping.
Shiv and I aren’t speaking, but not because I am still angry. How could I be? He was only looking out for me. But how can I justify the decapitation of a child? And how can he?
In the eyes of The Destroyer, does all destruction look and rank the same? As The Creator, I can certainly relate to this, for all creation is dear to me, belongs to me. But in the quiet of the night, when all my children are asleep, I secretly admit that Ganesh belongs to me a little bit more than the others do. While they are born from my will, Ganesh was made from my will and my body.
This is what still pains me, and this pain turns to speech.
How could you not recognize me in him? How could you hurt me?
I am sorry, he says, though he smiles a little out of relief. I had been in a brutal battle, and when I finally reached home, this unknown boy refused to let me in. To our home!
So you cut off his head?
That’s not how it happened.
Tell me then, Shiv. I want to understand.
I don’t know how to say this. To admit this.
Admit what?
He is silent, save for the hissing of the snakes around his neck. We are standing face to face, and I notice his attentive third eye is closed. Is it hiding from me?
The truth is, I did recognize him, he says softly. Or rather, I saw you in him. How could I not?
He pauses.
You see, in those few moments, I was overcome with love for this beautiful child. For if he had somehow come from your body, I had to love him as I do your eyes, your laughter. Just as I love every extension of you. But, my dear Parvati …
But?
This was not just love. He turns his back to me and sighs.
If he had … somehow come from your body, he had to be closer to you, more precious to you. Once you had him, wouldn’t you always be aware of our distance? What use could you have for me? What love would you have for an outsider?
Shiv …
I am sorry.
Shiv, I love you precisely because I didn’t create you.
He liked watching her from a distance.
He admired her indifference to her environment, as though everything and everyone existed only in relation to her and she alone determined their value. She would sing loudly in her office as though she was in her shower, completely unaware that her employees were listening, giggling. And yet, by being truly the centre of her own world, she seemed able to witness and appreciate the world around her—every structure and fallen leaf—with a genuineness that only someone who wasn’t preoccupied with a constant internal dialogue of insecurity could possess. So when she complimented a friend, her motive wasn’t secretly to elicit a compliment in return, and when she pointed out the tiny gargoyles seated on top of the Arts Building, it was with sheer curiosity and marvel, the kind he didn’t have because he always looked down when he walked. And when he worked.
If only he had looked up, he might have noticed that she was watching him too.
They developed a morning ritual at the beginning of his shifts. She would sit down at the long table in the centre of the office and paint or file her nails as though this was just another task in her day’s work. But they both understood that she was there, instead of in her office, to talk to him. He made efforts to file and photocopy—because he was somewhat invested in making a good impression as an employee, her employee—but his work was often derailed by an ever-growing, limitless list of questions he wanted to ask:
What is your favourite colour? Where have you travelled outside of Edmonton? What are you thinking? Where do you like to shop? What is your sun sign? Where were your parents born? What book are you reading? What do you do on Saturday nights? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you …?
He liked hearing her speak, the way she e-nun-ci-at-ed ev-er-y syl-la-ble, as though each one meant something. Their exchanges warmed up with the innocent I did such and such on the weekend, moved to the slightly more personal I have this many siblings and pets, and built to the existential This is why I left my religion.
Occasionally, the topic of her boyfriend Morty would surface, and he would listen attentively to every detail to learn as much as he could about the kind of creature that could captivate the captivating.
So, what did you do this weekend?
Oh, Morty and I went to a toga party at his frat house.
What’s a toga party?
A stupid party where everyone wears togas and gets drunk and high.
I can’t imagine you in a toga. Though I suppose it’s probably like a white sari?
She laughed.
; I didn’t wear one! But Morty did, of course. She rolled her eyes.
He wasn’t convinced of Morty’s ordinariness by her description or even by Morty’s any-white-male presentation when he came to visit her. Watching them walk away, hand in hand, he felt a sharp dislike, the kind he reserved for people he didn’t know and therefore had the freedom to impose the worst qualities upon. But this dislike was coupled with a certainty that beneath his oversized, worn out, dried-ketchup-coloured waffle sweater, Morty possessed an exceptional quality, an old magic or skill found in the kind of book that was large, leather-bound, and printed in a Gothic font.
Eventually, their morning ritual extended to her walking with him to his psych class, after work. This didn’t strike either of them as out of the ordinary because there was still so much more to say. Nor did the pace of the walk itself—the way their feet intuitively slowed down, stretching seconds into minutes, as they approached his class. Getting to know each other better and deeper in short increments led them to discover a shared love of movies.
Have you heard about the new Baz Luhrmann film?
He has a new movie? Who’s in it?
Nicole Kidman! And apparently she sings?
I love Nicole Kidman. And I loved Romeo + Juliet. It’s one of my top five. And the soundtrack!
That Garbage song …
They nodded in unison.
Do you maybe want to see the new movie together when it’s out?
I have always wanted a movie friend, she said.
He imagined playing this role—sitting next to her for two hours in a dark theatre, sharing licorice and popcorn and laughter, and the riveting discussions that would inevitably follow about what he liked and what she didn’t—and wanted nothing more.