by Vivek Shraya
The changes were small at first. He was procrastinating doing the day’s errands, lounging on the couch, the first time he imagined his right hand had grown another finger. He tried to shake it off.
I don’t like myself when I am not with her, he mumbled to the finger, thinking aloud.
He spent the weekend trying his best to ignore it, but whenever he used his hand to reach for a glass or put on his jacket, and he was forced to look at it, he felt a nauseating disappointment with himself, as though the finger was a manifestation of all his flaws and inadequacies.
I shouldn’t have slept in. I should have gone for a run this morning. I should have worked harder at the office this week. I should have bought groceries. I don’t read enough. I don’t call my parents enough. I am a bad son. I am a bad friend. I am not good enough. I am not good enough. I am not good enough. I am not good enough.
As soon as she was home again, the new finger vanished before he could even show it to her and he forgot about it altogether.
During her subsequent travels, his body grew a third arm, and a fourth, and a second tongue and even a tail. He could never predict where a new growth might spring out. He would turn off all the lights in their apartment to avoid seeing himself and wait for her in darkness. Sometimes he would whisper to himself: Take a knife to it. The thought wasn’t rooted in a desire to inflict pain, but rather in the reasoning that if he cut off the part, perhaps he could study it inside out and understand it and himself better.
Just like the finger, these extra limbs would all fade when she returned, when she merely smiled at him or caressed his face with the back of her hand.
How did you do that? he asked each time.
Do what?
He didn’t respond because he didn’t know how to ask: How did you make me myself again? How did you make the beast disappear?
He began to sleep at the edge of their bed, resentful of her presence, of her body that seemed to know his body better than he did, and his new growths took longer to shed. He had more and more difficulty knowing which body was real, and some days, he even believed his imagined body was his true body, forcing him to bail out of social commitments and repeatedly call in sick at work.
I am a bad worker. I am a bad friend. I disappoint everyone. I can’t be what they want. Everyone is better off without me. I am not good enough. I am not good enough. I am not good enough. I am not good enough. I am not enough. I am not enough. I am not enough. I am not enough.
After we killed him, I lost her.
Kali had lapped up every drop of his blood, preventing new Mahishasuras from sprouting, and I steadfastly slaughtered the remaining Mahishasuras. Together we were a terrifying and magnificent team. But then, high on the taste of life, she began feeding on any human in sight, dancing feverishly as she drank their innocent bodies dry, her eyes rolling in circles. She wanted more.
Kali! I said, over and over again, trying to awaken her from her madness. She was beyond my reach. For a moment, I wanted her to have everything. Why must we always prioritize harmony and consider consequence? What lessons do we miss by suppressing rage and chaos? Why did Shiv alone have domain over destruction?
These thoughts only heightened Kali’s delirium, and she nodded violently in agreement. I could taste the blood in her mouth. It was sour and cold, like rotting plants, foretelling the extinction ahead. No, I whispered, shifting my attention to the humans, moving as many as I could to safety.
Into the trees! Hurry! I yelled.
Suddenly, Shiv appeared. He looked at me, then at her, and then at me again. Although he had never seen Kali before, he recognized her as part of me. He approached her from behind, waited for her to be mid-air, and stealthily laid himself down beneath her feet.
Shiv! What are you doing? She will crush you! I cried.
Kali danced on his body, oblivious to him, her feet pounding on his chest and her arms flailing in every direction. Shiv’s eyes were closed. I knew that I had to push her off of him somehow, even if this meant incurring her wrath. Before I had the chance, she wobbled and look down, startled.
Blue, I remember you, she said. She disappeared back into my brow, leaving a smell of smoke, of fires quenched.
I rushed to Shiv’s side.
Shiv, I am so sorry. She was insatiable. I should have …
He opened his eyes and smiled.
You should have everything, he said, echoing my earlier thought.
But I do!
Perhaps the only way to steady her—and me—was for him to rest his body under hers.
Can’t you see what is happening to me? he said, massaging his temples with vigour, trying to pacify the throbbing under his forehead.
She had not mentioned anything about his new body, but he assumed she was being kind, the way she would pretend not to see the bulbous zit on his face, even when he pointed it out.
Yes, you seem different, she said.
So you can see my new leg?
A new leg? No … you seem restless. And unhapp—
What about my tail? he interrupted and pointed behind him.
She examined him closely.
I still don’t see anything, love. You are as beautiful as ever.
He cringed. Why couldn’t she see what he saw?
Just be honest. Please. I need you to be honest.
She walked towards him and said, You are beautiful.
Whenever she looked at him, including at this moment, her entire face turned to light. He wondered what it would feel like to look at himself and see what she saw, to shine as she did, or at least feel a lightness in his body. He imagined what it would be like to walk down the street, a tower of light, fully connected to his limbs and senses.
His three arms pushed her away, refusing to succumb to her light, and he grew silent.
Please just talk to me.
One of his tongues held the other tongue down.
Listen, I love you. Whatever is going on, we can figure this out together.
His top tongue loosened.
What did you just say? he asked.
I said I love you.
His new leg dissolved.
Can you say it again?
I love you …
In minutes, his body was entirely restored.
He found himself looking forward to her next departure, feeling a new confidence as a result of the secret he had uncovered.
When she did leave, and a second head appeared on his shoulder, he tried to conjure her love. She loves you, she loves you, she loves you, he said to the head. It refused to disappear.
Why isn’t this working? She loves you, she loves you, she loves you, his original head kept telling the other, his voice increasing in volume, thinking perhaps the new head’s ears could not hear very well.
You’re wasting your breath, the new head replied. And it was right. Her love did seem to have limitations. Its effects were temporary, and he desired a more permanent solution.
But she loves you, he cried. She loves you, she loves you … I love you, he accidentally blurted.
No, you don’t, the other head responded. It was right again.
He was about to surrender when he recalled a memory. They were on her bedroom floor, her body arched into his, and his face buried in her hair. His index finger moved slowly but deliberately along her bare back, spelling words, which he punctuated with a kiss. This was how he had told her he loved her, the very first time.
Why had he never thought to apply the same ardour to his own body? What would happen if he did?
He said the words again, this time earnestly, as if it were a prayer:
I
love
you.
The head vanished. His body quivered with an unfamiliar sense of victory. He closed his eyes.
He pictured himself running in an open field. With every thrust forward and every leap, he felt boundless, reaching higher and higher until he soared right out of his body as a light blue glow. At last! he exclaimed, suspen
ded in air.
Language dissipated.
Words and flesh were replaced by absolute feeling, a feeling he had experienced only in brief bursts—the grand heat pulsing beneath laughter, a flashback of a treasured moment, or every time his hairs stood on end. In this pure state, it was impossible for him to perceive any error in or damage to himself.
He basked.
Time drifted.
Until something below caught his attention. Illuminated by starlight, his body appeared translucent on the emerald green grass. Astounded by the sight of it, the sturdiness of its structure, he wasn’t certain at first that it was even his own. With no mirror or person to reflect himself back to him, he studied his body with curiosity. He noted the callouses on the soles of his feet, the contracting and relaxing of his diaphragm, the blood circulating through his maze of arteries, the protection of his eyelids, and the intricacy of his brain. He twinkled in awe, humbled by his body, which seemed to continuously labour for him, without recognition. Could it be that all this time he and his body were actually teammates, were partners?
He opened his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself.
I don’t like myself when I am not with you. He finally said the words to her. And I want to.
GANESHA
Pita, can I talk to you about something?
Anything, son.
Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see … a forest.
A forest? Do you see anything else?
No. Just a forest.
Shiv looks at me. I look away for a moment and then nod quietly. He nods back. We had known from that day that this day was unavoidable.
Come with me, Ganesh.
Although I am not explicitly invited, I join them.
On Shiv’s bull, Nandi, we travel west of the mountains in silence. In a few months, these parts will be submerged under snow. But for now and for the last time this year, the leaves are showing off their colour—every shade of red, orange, and yellow. I can feel my own colour fade as we approach our destination. I want to say to our son:
I failed you. I should have protected you.
Instead, I hear his voice. Pita! That is it. That is the place I see. Ganesh points ahead.
I know …
How do you know?
Because. This is where your head is from.
My head?
Yes. Haven’t you wondered why you have the head of an elephant?
I have not … Uma has always said that I am special.
You are. You are.
Shiv closes his eyes, bows his head, and then begins the tale of how he cut off Ganesh’s head. He tells the story with as much detail as he can summon as penance.
I want to hold his hand. I want to hold Ganesh’s hand. I want to place their hands in each other’s.
I study Ganesh’s face. It is calm and unshaken, with no lines of doubt on his forehead, his eyes clear and gleaming. It is hard for me to imagine that once he had a different face, that once this face, this face I love, belonged to a demon.
What happened to my other head? is Ganesh’s first question after Shiv finishes, reading my mind.
We buried it, Shiv says.
Where?
Here, actually. Under the tallest tree. Parvati, your Uma, insisted that since we had taken something from the forest, something had to be returned.
Please take me to it.
Shiv guides us solemnly through the trees that sway around us until we reach it. I recall the tree by the colour of its bark, a hint of maroon, though it is no longer the tallest of its companions.
This is it.
Ganesh bends down and puts his head to the fallen leaves and wet earth.
Then he begins to sing. I immediately recognize his song—the notes too high, the melody too beautiful.
I stand over him and sing with him.
Home is a painting. A painting purchased from IKEA.
Do you think it’s in bad taste? IKEA art?
Who cares? It’s beautiful.
It was.
It was a painting of Manhattan in black and white and from the sky’s perspective. All the grandeur and busyness of a big city captured and unusually still.
They had hung the painting over their bed. On some mornings, after he would leave for work, she would linger under the duvet, look up, and reminisce about their travel adventures. And whenever he was distracted while he read, he would stare at it to ground him. He dreamed names and lives and quests associated with each apartment light. He even reserved a small window light in the right-hand corner just for them.
Wouldn’t it be great to live in New York for a year? she had said.
It would.
We could really experience the city. Not just as tourists.
Yeah, but there is no way they are going to let two brown people move to New York.
Especially not with your beard.
They chuckled.
The painting became a fixture of their bedroom, as vital as the bed itself, and over time, he couldn’t imagine their home without it.
Now, they had the unimaginable task of drawing a line between their possessions, to be divided into her boxes and his boxes. As his hand touched every object and fixture, it re-awakened a unique memory, a precious history that was embedded in each.
one painting
one bed
one TV
one couch
one recliner
four bar stools
four mugs
eight plates
four bowls
two frying pans
one bottle of ketchup
one bottle of soy sauce
one bottle of Patak’s pickle
one box of pasta
two towels
two dish towels
one bottle of Windex
two sets of bed sheets
one clotheshorse
one stool
two lamps
two bookshelves
one alarm clock
one desk
one cutlery set
He was certain his heart would literally break and often crossed his arms over his chest to keep it intact. But he was profoundly wrong. He discovered that a home could break, but a heart could not. That their home could break, but his heart would not despite how much he wished it would. His heart could actually withstand the dissolution of his home, and this was where the pain came from. Pain was his heart bearing and bearing and bearing and bearing and bearing and bearing and bearing and bearing. Pain was the sound of his relentless heartbeat, pushing forward as though nothing was changing. Pain was knowing that he was the cause of her pain, the reason why her eyes were without their sparkle and wonder. Pain was not knowing if he was making a monumental mistake, wanting to reach out to her and say, I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind.
Pain was a bare white wall where a painting once hung. A painting sold to strangers through Craigslist.
After he left her, he turned to another body—water.
Every day, the water taught him something new about how to connect to his own body.
The first step, the hardest step, was taking off his clothes. Allowing his body to be exposed to light and air—to be free. Only then could he enter the pool.
His second challenge was learning how to float. He tread close to the pool’s edge in case he needed to latch onto it for support. His body fought hard against the water, resisting it, not unlike how he had resisted his own body. It was only after he exhausted himself from splashing and kicking aimlessly, when he fully surrendered to the water, that he stopped drowning.
As his body elongated with each lap, the water encouraged him to stretch out and slow down his thoughts so he could observe each one. The buzzing of his never-ending to-do list softened and lost its urgency.
Respond to email.
The water showed him how to release the day’s disappointments with each breath in-between strokes, so that the weight he carried was only that of his physical self. When his head was
fully submerged again, the taste of chlorine acted as the final cleanse. Drained of the superfluous, his body didn’t feel so unmanageable.
The water also gave him an open and quiet space where he could cry without being seen. Water to water—this is when he felt they were closest, they were friends.
He often thought of her when he was in the water. Although a chapter of their relationship had ended, one year later, he found that there was still no period to their sentence. Their sentence kept finding a way, because they kept finding a way to make room for a comma and another comma and another conjunction, because there was still so much to share, still so much more to say.
Once we were bacteria. We were simple cells for three billion years.
We grew complex. Our cells wanted to grow, work, and reproduce.
Once we were jellyfish, free-swimming.
We learned how to crawl before we grew feet. We colonized the land. Our blood turned warm. Our arms stretched into wings, and we sought homes everywhere beneath the clouds.
Because it was necessary.
For millennia, I have been evolving into this version of myself, this body. To know yours.
Because it was necessary.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not be possible without Shemeena Shraya, Trish Yeo, and Raymond Biesinger.
A special thank you to the Arsenal Pulp Press team, Adam Holman, Farzana Doctor, Karen Campos, Maureen Hynes, Margot Francis, Caleb Nault, Marilyn McLean, Amber Dawn, Kathryn Payne, Tegan Quin, Sara Quin, RM Vaughn, Shyam Selvadurai, Rakesh Satyal, Dale Hall, Katherine Friesen, and my family.
VIVEK SHRAYA is a multimedia artist, working in the mediums of music, performance, literature, and film. His first book, God Loves Hair, was a Lambda Literary Award finalist first published in 2011 and reissued in a new edition from Arsenal Pulp Press in 2014. Winner of the We Are Listening International Singer/Songwriter Award, Vivek has released albums ranging from acoustic folk-rock to electro synth-pop. His most recent is Breathe Again, a tribute to the songs of R&B artist Babyface. His short film, What I LOVE about being QUEER, has expanded to include an online project and Lambda Literary Award-nominated book with contributions from around the world. He lives in Toronto.