by Vivek Shraya
Jai Jai Devi Girija Matha
Jai Jagadambey Pranava Swarupini
Ashta Bhujangini Akhilaa Dhari
Jai Yogeeswara Hrudaya Vihari
He does not understand that there are still days when I cannot bear to look at him, that it might be best for everyone if he returned to his former, mostly removed self.
At times, it is hard to look at Ganesh too. The knowledge of where his head comes from is not only a reminder of Shiv’s actions, but it also makes it difficult for me to see Ganesh as one complete being. I recognize his body, the one born from my own, but not his foreign, animal head.
The other gods and celestial beings are not receptive either. Although anyone related to Shiv could be perceived as strange, however revered, Ganesh seems to push the limits of acceptance. I have even heard rumours that the moon mocked Ganesh, particularly his size. (I will obliterate the moon right out of the solar system if these rumours are true.)
Ganesh loves to eat. He befriended a mouse after an incident when both of them fought over the last modaka, only to bond over their common sweet tooth. Together, they consume all the daily offerings that are left at our doorstep by demigods and humans who seek our blessings. A friendship with a rodent only amplifies Ganesh’s supposed strangeness, but if the others would only look more closely, they would behold a tender heart, able to love regardless of size or status or expectation. If I could reconstruct my own heart, I would make it identical to his.
I can’t help but be mesmerized as I watch Ganesh eat. With every bite, the unrestrained joy in his eyes seems to grow once it reaches his belly, pushing it outward. I can almost taste the ladoo, jalebi, and rasgulla in my own mouth, the sweetness spreading throughout my core. Watching him eat unifies his head and body for me and allows me to see him as one.
Lately, I find myself wondering if this is partly what he has been trying to do for himself as well—using food to build a body in balance with his head.
In elementary school, he and his classmates drew the sun identically—an uneven circle in a top corner of the page with jagged triangles around the entire circumference, filled in with yellow crayon, and a smiley face drawn on it with an orange crayon. As she slept, he thought that, if he were to draw the sun now, it would be her face, not yellow but the colour of palaces in Jaipur. Her upturned lips that smiled even while she dreamed, not orange but the shade of eggplants, her crown of curly hair replacing the triangles, her eyes that were stars in their own right.
But why draw her face when I can look directly upon it? he wondered. Instead, something about her face made him want to sing. This response was more concrete than melody; it was a lyric too. A melody that had not yet been sung and a lyric not yet written.
Quietly humming, he followed the lines of her neck down to her shoulders, clasped by his hand, his arm around her back, their bodies held together by her white sheets. If he squinted slightly, together they appeared to him like a sea of brown rolling over and under white clouds.
He remembered trying to figure out what kind of brown she was when they first met. The shape of her nose gave away her Muslimness, but he wondered what type of brown girl wore khakis and had a crush on Data from Star Trek. He took clues from her closest friends when they visited her at work. They were Brown Girl brown; their approach to style, acquired mostly from Dynamite, Garage, or Forever 21, involved showing various degrees of skin and yet always appearing business-casual, as though they weren’t able to completely shed their parents’ traditionalism. They were professionals who dated only Muslim brown men and went to clubs that played hip hop music infused with some Bollywood. She really liked that one Nelly Furtado song.
He was in a brown category that was generally frowned upon by other brown people, especially other brown parents: Alternative brown. This meant he wore vintage clothing, had his ears pierced, had blond streaks, and hung out with non-browns.
In some ways, he was more brown than anyone he knew. When given the choice of restaurants to go to on his birthday, his craving for deep-fried cheese cubes mixed with peas trumped burgers or pizza. He listened to santoor on Saturdays when he cleaned his room and understood the complicated, often multi-storied significance behind most Hindu celebrations like Deepavali and Onam. He thought Sanskrit was the most beautiful language he had ever heard and found the constriction of English translations, which exposed the general apathy of English itself, deeply disappointing. “Prema” was so much more expansive and sacred than “love.”
And yet, brown in and of itself, had not yet registered as a real colour to him. Brown was unremarkable, a non-colour, akin to a shade of grey. For he had been blinded by another colour: white. White expanded limitlessly and drained every other colour out until all that could be seen was
whitefriendwhiteactorwhiteteacherwhiteneighbourwhiteinventorwhitestrangerwhiteactresswhitecoworkerwhitesingerwhiteprincipalwhitefriendwhiteactorwhiteteacherwhitecashierwhiteneighbourwhitestrangerwhiteserverwhitepostmanwhiteclassmatewhitebullywhiterockstarwhitefriendwhitefriendwhitekingwhitequeenwhiteteacherwhitemodelwhiteconquererwhitesaviourwhitewomanwhiteprimeministerwhitedoctorwhiterealestateagentwhiteneighbourwhitefriendwhiteprofessorwhitegodwhiteairstewardwhitemanwhitescientistwhitedentistwhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewwhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhite
White was almost every interaction he had, and through this relentless exposure, he learned to value it, serve it, aspire to it, his white bedroom walls plastered with white famous faces. This was where the true power of white resided.
But something unexpected happened when he placed his brown next to hers, something that white worked so hard against.
whitewhitewhitewhitebrownbrownwhitewhitewhitewhite
In the absence of white, he could see colour.
Your brown has more of a pink base than mine, he had observed the first time they held hands, still looking for answers to her origin in her skin.
It’s true. And your brown has a yellowy tone to it, she said.
I look jaundiced?
She laughed and shoved him gently. No, no. You are golden.
I am also darker than you …
Your skin is perfect. Why would anyone want to be another colour? She kissed his cheek.
Marvelling at her perfectly round chestnut cheeks, he couldn’t help but agree. Falling in love with her brown had unexpectedly given his own skin new value, a new sheen.
As they dug past the surface, they discovered their brownness was a map that only directed them closer, pointing to their abundance of commonalities and fascinating variations. She called lentils “dhar,” he called lentils “dhal.” His motherland was India; she was a child of the Ismaili diaspora. She couldn’t do a brown accent; he sang her songs in Kannada. Through these travels, they created a whole new shade of brown—their shade—one that beamed gloriously in the beauty of itself, one that hadn’t been taught that it was anything less than extraordinary.
As she woke up to his face, she spoke softly in Khatchi:
Aau thoke bo arathi.
What do you like about me?
The question was unexpected. On its own, it implied an insecurity, forcing the other person to respond with a list of compliments:
You are intelligent,
sexy,
hilarious,
adventurous,
thoughtful …
Fishing was not her style, but before he responded he found himself envious that he hadn’t thought to ask the question himself.
Everything.
He put his hand over her hand.
That’s not an answer.
She pulled her hand away.
But that’s my answer.
He didn’t know how to say in words that she was the first person he had ever liked outside of h
is needs. He didn’t like her because she was another person whose approval he craved or merely because she liked him back. He liked her for herself and everything she embodied.
But even more than this—before her, he hadn’t known how to trust love because he had always had to work for it. Every smile, phone call, birthday gift, he had fought for. Put out his neck for. Stood in the rain for. Earned with muscle and memory. He noticed the details no one else paid attention to, remembered the occasions that everyone else forgot, weathered rejection or no response at all, found a void, and then found a way to fill it.
So when someone had said I need you, it just meant he had been successful. If they didn’t need him, he hadn’t bent low enough, gotten on his knees, and his skin hadn’t developed the right callouses.
When they said I miss you, it just meant that they were responding to the gaps between his carefully timed, repetitive appearances in their inbox or on their doorstep.
And when they said I love you, he wanted to respond: You should. And then walk away.
But not with her. With every step he had taken toward her, she had taken a step toward him.
His hand reached for her hand again.
No, really, what do you like about me? she insisted.
Why?
I figure if I know, I can keep doing it to keep you for as long as I can.
The birth of my second son, Muruga, has healed our familial wound. He is a new beginning for us, a new and unsullied body at whom to direct our love, reflecting back the best in all of us. So content are we to be in each other’s company that we seldom leave our abode.
Shall we play a game, boys? Shiv asks.
Muruga jumps up. Yes!
Okay. Whoever is the fastest to circle the earth three times will receive a special blessing from your mother and me, Shiv says.
Shiv, you know we love our boys equally.
Muruga hops on his peacock vehicle and bolts off without hearing my admonishment.
I know Shiv has to be jesting about the reward, but Muruga has the advantage. Comparisons have been made between Muruga and Ganesh in the celestial and human worlds, and it is clear that Muruga is everyone’s favourite. Is this because of Ganesh’s now even larger physicality? Although he is perfection to me, I recognize that, of the main deities, he lacks an immediate prettiness. His skin isn’t the colour of the sky. He can’t be beautified (or hidden) by flower garlands. His presence is unabashedly what it is. Isn’t that what divinity should be? The embodiment of truth?
I turn to Ganesh, who is slowly rising to his feet.
Your father is being silly. You don’t have to play.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks solemnly toward where Shiv and I are seated, leaning on each other, and begins to circle us 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 expected, when I’m gay didn’t mean he was somehow lacking or inferior in her esteem, he was forced to revert his inspection back to himself.
In his stomach, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was maybe a fraud, lying to her and lying to himself, despite his honesty. After all, how could he know if his feelings were in fact genuine and not just some part of him still resisting I’m gay?
He had also never kissed a boy, let alone dated one, and while he couldn’t imagine what could feel better than her lips and his lips, he didn’t feel informed enough to dismiss the potential of his lips and another his lips. I’m gay meant that a part of him felt that there must be a better, truer kiss waiting for him, somewhere.
So how could he keep kissing her?
The next three minutes would determine the course of the rest of his day. One hundred and eighty seconds turned into dots that needed to be connected and interpreted, a task he would commit himself to during sociology, on the forty-minute bus ride home, and probably while he watched Party of Five. He would call her, and together they would discuss what the final result of his day’s analysis meant and how best to prepare for next week.
Post-breakup, they were slowly transitioning into friend
ship. They still weren’t able to prevent their hands and mouths from fastening onto each other, but they independently and unusually decided not to talk about it. Instead, they interpreted talking about other romantic interests as an adequate indication that they were moving on.
He stopped on the side of the corridor that bridged the law building to the university mall and pretended to look for something inside his bag, but what he was looking for was up ahead. Any second now, That Guy was going to walk by.
They would do the gay dance with their eyes—stare, look away, stare, look away—each modelling for the other’s hidden camera. No smile, in case the other wasn’t gay or wasn’t interested. In Alberta, the combination of a stare and a smile, from one man to another, however brief, could be dangerous. He couldn’t allow himself to forget this.
That Guy’s unpredictability only heightened his attraction. Last week, That Guy had barely made eye contact, mostly looking at his phone. The week before, That Guy had slowed down and licked his lips as though he was getting ready to say something. What was That Guy going to say? How would he respond? He would probably first pat the back of his head to make sure his cowlick was not too visible and shake his bangs to make sure his new pimple was properly concealed.
What he wanted was more than a stare, more than an exchange of words, more than to see or touch what was beneath the cotton and denim.
He wanted to feel the validation of a man’s desire. And not just any man’s. He wanted to be desired by The Man He Deemed Desirable. When distracted in Shakespeare 101, he scribbled in his notebook:
If I made you King
and you named me your Prince—
Then who is King
and who is Prince?
If That Guy, whom he had chosen, liked him, thought he was good and worthy and beautiful, perhaps he too could think he possessed these qualities. Perhaps he could even like himself.