She of the Mountains

by Vivek Shraya

  He always knew when he was transforming into his mother because all of his surroundings would be covered by a pungent red hue. Then he would brew and stew until a faint smoke emerged from his nostrils.

  I don’t want to come home to this mess. I don’t, he said. It’s disgusting.

  She would grow quiet, like her mother, her waters freezing over until completely solid. He wondered how she could ice him out.

  Aren’t you going to say something? Or are you just going to sit there?

  She wondered how he could be so scalding. Each of their temperatures only intensified in response to the other. In the first months of living together, one of them would somehow find a means to moderate the other. She used reason:

  I do all the cooking, right? Doesn’t it make sense for you to do all the dishes?

  He used shame:

  Since when do you cook? We eat out almost every night.

  But it never felt like a victory, the melting of ice, the extinguishing of fire.

  It was by accident (and by chance), in a disagreement about something minor that neither of them would remember in a week, that he blurted the timeless and truest coming-of-age phrase: I don’t want to be my mother.

  They paused.

  Neither do I, she responded.

  This realization dispelled the argument, their attentions now elsewhere, brainstorming about how they could have conflict in their own way, instead of merely performing behaviours they had observed in their respective childhood homes.

  When you are mean, where is that coming from?

  I never want to be mean, especially not to you.

  When you shut down, I get more agitated.

  I need time to think before I engage.

  What if you think aloud? Tell me what is going on inside you.

  What if we took a ten-minute break instead?

  Ten minutes is an eternity when I am hurt.

  But you know I would never want to deliberately hurt you, right?

  They decided that the key lay in the window of time between each of their transformations. The person who had not yet turned would somehow have to find a way to cross the dividing lines unseen, get close enough in emotional proximity to shake the other with the crucial reminder: We are on the same team!

  Other variations included:

  This is me, remember? Remember me?

  or

  I don’t want to fight about _____, I love you.

  These worked every time.

  It had started again.

  SCENE ONE

  (Setting: Nightclub, outside patio—stranger approaches one of his friends)

  Stranger 1: Is he your friend?

  Friend 1: Yes.

  Stranger 1: Is he single?

  Friend 1: No, that’s his partner. (points at her)

  Stranger 1: Ha! No way, she’s just his fag hag.

  SCENE TWO

  (Setting: Their workplace—two of her co-workers having lunch in the lunch room, third co-worker at microwave, overhearing)

  Co-worker 1: He is trying to pass for straight now. I kind of feel sorry for him.

  Co-worker 2: I actually feel sorry for her. I don’t think she knows.

  Co-worker 1: Is that why she looks so sad and fat?

  SCENE THREE

  (Setting: A restaurant—two of their mutual friends face each other, sharing dessert)

  Mutual friend 1: They must have an open relationship …

  Mutual friend 2: Either that or they don’t have sex.

  Perhaps because he had been hearing it most of his life, the subtext was unmistakably clear:

  You’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. You’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. You’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. You’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. You’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, You’re Gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay. You’re gay, you’re gay! YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re GAY, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay! you’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay! you’re GAY, You’re Gay, you’re gay, you’re gay, YOU’re gay, you’re gay, you’re Gay!

  And yet, he resisted this translation out of genuine bewilderment at who was saying it: other gays.

  He found it strange, alarming even, to be reminded of something he was implicitly aware of, namely his own desires. Did they think he had forgotten or that they were aware of something about him that he wasn’t? At first, he was certain that the confusion arose from language; more specifically, the failure of language. He had refused to call himself straight. There were too many coffee breaks fantasizing about hairy chests to account for. But, conversely, calling himself gay rendered his love and relationship an illusion, an experiment, an exception.

  So he abandoned language altogether (although, if pushed, he would state that that he was Hersexual, she being the immediate house of his desire and happiness). But with the absence of language, of a label, came an unfortunate implication: shame. To not commit to a label, however committed he was to his relationship, was to be

  indecisive

  which meant

  confused

  which meant

  closeted

  which meant

  GAY.

  He anxiously waited for the right moment to come out to the other gays as being in love with a woman, which felt remarkably similar to when he would come out to the straights as gay: the fear of condemnation, the waiting for the inevitable smirk or narrowing of eyes or flurry of questions that were actually comments, which usually started with a

  But

  followed by

  have you considered that

  and/or

  maybe you are scared

  and ending with a question mark, that if put into words would sound like:

  YOU’RE GAY.

  He felt he owed the other gays answers, a detailed explanation, beginning with his teenage years, of how he had come to be in this relationship, of how his story was not the same as histories of gay men lying to their families and taking their wedding rings off before going to the baths. But at some point, he began to worry that his detailed explanations came across as

  defensive,

  so he said very little about his relationship

  which suggested

  he had something to hide,

  or rather,

  he was hiding

  which meant

>   GAY.

  Until the word queer found him. The word had been surfacing more often in his social circle—mentions of queer parties or queer art—but he hadn’t immediately considered it as his own.

  He recognized that she and he could hold hands and kiss in most spaces and that landlords wouldn’t think twice about renting to them. But queer spoke to all the other spaces and moments his body and his heart didn’t fit into. Queer acknowledged both the cocksucking porn on his laptop and the wanting to be underneath her. Queer encompassed every time his gender was read as wrong and the words “fucking faggot” were spat at him. Wearing queer allowed him to shed the sense that he was lying to one group or another. His love, and the person he cherished most, no longer needed to be kept secret. He could be everything all at once. Ironically, queer meant whole.

  So I have been thinking of identifying as queer, he said to her.

  Well, I love my queer partner, she responded. Hearing her say those words, he realized that she too needed the word queer, especially in that sentence, if only to be able to counter the Duped Victim narrative that had been projected onto her.

  His claiming of queer did not suffice for the gays. If anything, it only angered them.

  SCENE FOUR

  (Setting: Holiday party—group of friends sitting around fireplace in living room)

  Him: Actually, my partner is a woman …

  Stranger 2: You fuck a woman?

  Him: Yes?

  Stranger 2: Really? But you are the GAYEST man I have ever met!

  SCENE FIVE

  (Setting: Starbucks—he and Friend 2 are having a heated conversation)

  Him: Well, that’s why I prefer queer as a label.

  Friend 2: But you know you can’t really call yourself queer without a dick in your mouth.

  It occurred to him that the gays and the straights had more in common than he had considered before. Just like the straights, the gays were intent on preserving and presenting a uniform, singular version of themselves; in this case, their gayness. They hadn’t been saying: you’re gay! You’re GAY! They were actually saying: Our way! OUR way!

  Sunday mornings on the balcony. Fresh croissants, Havarti, and sparkling grape juice. Her slicing the Havarti so thin that it tasted like a perfect layer of butter.

  Applying her rose-tinted lip gloss to his lips with her fingers. Lip-glossed kissing. So sticky, he said.

  Slow dancing under the first snowfall outside their apartment on Bloor Street, her nose pressed into his cheek for warmth. Slow dancing while waiting for the Queen streetcar and him being grateful that the streetcar was late, as usual. Trying to slow dance in the shower, and her getting shampoo in her eyes. Slow dancing while brushing their teeth before bed to Madonna’s “Crazy for You.” Two by two, their bodies become one.

  Waiting for his workday to be over, to be standing outside their apartment, keys already in his hand, hoping she would be on the other side. Waiting to flood her face with kisses and then share the newest work or friend or family gossip. Waiting for Thursday night to see the midnight premiere screening of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Waiting for the summer, for evening walks and gelato and her body glowing with a light sheen of sweat. Waiting for her thirtieth birthday to surprise her with a trip to New York City.

  Arguing about her lack of effort with his friends as they walked up to the Eiffel Tower. Preparing for his job interview on the road trip to Ottawa. You will be charming, you always are, she said. Sweeping up her long curly hair from every corner of their apartment and missing that hair when she was out of town for weeks. Surprising her at Pearson Airport when she returned.

  A Felicity marathon during the February snowstorm, and getting sick from eating too much stale delivery pizza. Splurging on a clear glass punch bowl for their Thanksgiving dinners, her favourite holiday. Fingering her on the Ossington bus on their way to his friend Trisha’s housewarming, and her being sure that they were going to get kicked off. Trying on her black lingerie after making her promise not to take any photos.

  Days of him disappearing into inexplicable sadness, and she his beacon. Holding her hand so tightly at the hospital while they watched her grandmother die. Him wanting her to know that however great her loss, he was beside her if she needed to lean.

  Two a.m. in bed, belting out a medley from Tegan and Sara’s So Jealous, her impressing him by mimicking the intricate background vocal parts. His snoring keeping her awake for hours. Her holding onto his body after his alarm clock beeped, strategically rolling her leg over his. Her saying, One more minute. Every morning.

  This is how seven years goes by.

  KALI

  I have never understood the relentless desire for immortality, which would suggest a cosmic irony, since I am Parvati, Embodiment of Life. But there is a reason why my partner is The Destroyer—I understand the necessity of balance, that the beauty of life is truly in its precariousness, its limitation. The beauty of life is that it ends. If I were mortal and could be granted anything, I assure you, my request would not be for something as dull as longevity.

  Centuries ago, the evil demon Mahishasura prayed for so long, forsaking food and water, that his prayers began to generate heat, a heat that could turn toxic and would need to be tempered. Brahma, the Father of Men, appeared above him.

  Oh Mahishasura! I have heard your prayers and bless you. What do you desire?

  Lord Brahma! I desire to live forever.

  Son, this cannot be granted to any man. Ask again.

  Then make me indestructible by any god …

  This boon gave Mahishasura permission to express his brutality, which he did, knowing that there could be no divine retribution. It is tragic how many equate this kind of power with being a god.

  The gods gathered at Vaikunta to seek counsel and comfort from the Great Protector, Narayana. It was eventually determined that gender was a loophole, and I could slip through it. I am not a god, after all, but a goddess.

  On the battlefield, I took on a new warrior form as Durga. Eight different weapons in eight different arms. My lion attacked Mahishasura effortlessly, and I stabbed my trishul into his gut. A clean, swift victory. The gods sighed.

  Until the first drop of his blood hit the earth. The red vibrated and exploded into another version of Mahishasura. Alive.

  How could this be? I pounced on the new Mahishasura, this time slicing off his arms and legs. More blood was spilled. More versions of him sprang forth surrounding me from every direction, every one of him laughing at a secret joke that I was not prepared for.

  I retreated into the cave of my mind, while Durga continued to fight valiantly.

  Who bestowed this power upon him?

  Who would dare to betray me like this?

  The questions circulated and repeated, new questions forming after every cycle. One new question for every new Mahishasura.

  How can there be life without my will, my touch, my love?

  How can there be life born from death?

  I began to lose sight of my own body and the battlefield under a thick haze of red. I was drowning.

  MahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishas—

  For the first time, I wanted to die. Not out of fear or hopelessness but to understand my enemy. To understand the dark magic behind the mystery I couldn’t solve, the multiplication I couldn’t divide. Perhaps death was the only way to know the other side of the equation.

  That desire expanded and burst out of my head, in the shape of her. For a moment, I thought it was Shiv. The long, unruly hair, the hunger for death in her eyes.

  I watched this being who had erupted from my brow get on her knees, open her mouth, and drink the red river that surrounded us. With every drop of blood, she became more excited, her black skin more radiant. At one point she looked up at me, smiling with all her t
eeth exposed, her red tongue dangling, and I understood that she hadn’t manifested to kill. It was pleasure she sought, the sweet savour of life.

  It was at that moment that I recognized her as myself.

  Kali, I whispered.

  She winked and said, without moving her lips:

  The beauty of life is the will to live.

  How could I have missed that? I had been caught by the wrong questions. The whos or hows didn’t matter. The why, however, the why was crucial. Why was Mahishasura replicating? Because that is precisely what life was engineered to do—it fights to sustain itself, to survive, despite its limitations. He was simply acting in accordance with his very nature, under my law.

  Once I remembered this, I was able to kill him.

  How did you get inside your body?

  How did I get inside my body? she repeated, checking to see if she had heard him correctly, running her fingers through his hair, his head on her lap.

  Yes …

  He could never escape the jarring feeling that he and his body were still two separate entities with two separate operating systems. Maneuvering his body felt like driving with the emergency brake on, the low and constant growl of dragging a frame embedded with an unforgotten history of hate. He wished that he believed he would be better suited for a different body, but another body represented only another confinement, another set of parameters. What he craved was the kind of repair that would unite driver and car as one, make them synchronous. He wondered if this was even possible, or if everyone silently struggled with this duality.

  What do you mean?

  The only time I feel inside my body is when it is next to yours. Like right now.

  Next to her body, he had grown into his own body in ways he hadn’t thought possible after high school, revelling in its colour and even deriving pleasure from it. Next to her body, he felt a seamless, integrated connection to his own. Next to her body, he felt hope.

  But in her absence, when she travelled to Montreal for work or to Edmonton to visit her family, the weight of his body would always reappear. Over the years, and the longer she was gone, the more the weight would grow, like a monstrous exaggeration of itself.