God Loves Hair

by Vivek Shraya

Are you going to supervise the school dance, Mr Mitchell?

  He always responds with a cocky ease, and I smile and nod, waiting for him to blink or look away after the socially appropriate amount of eye contact has ended, so that I can steal a peek up his shorts, an image I will summon later that night.

  On the day he catches me peeking, he is wearing boxers with little dogs on them.

  MOUSTACHE

  My body is disappearing. Armpits, chest, belly button, arms, fingers, legs, and toes that were once bare are now lost somewhere under multiplying hair. There is even hair down there. My brother and I try to compare our hair-growths at dinner, but my parents tell us this is inappropriate to share. We must grow hairy alone. Thankfully, most of the hairs are hidden. Just not the ones rising above my lips. Nice moustache! I know it’s not a compliment. I ask my parents if I can shave. You aren’t old enough. A year of family birthday photographs all feature my newest facial highlight, joining forces with the splatter of acne and the oversize purple tortoise-shell glasses. I ask my parents if I can shave again. Don’t be like one of these Canadian children always in a rush to grow up! My moustache becomes my trademark.

  When I am fifteen, my parents are ready to make a compromise. They tell me to shower and come to the living room. I dash down the staircase to find my mom holding a silver tray with an oil lamp, a twenty-dollar bill, and something small wrapped in newspaper. She waves the flame around my face, blessing me and removing any mark made by evil spirits. She tells me, You are a man now, and hands me the money and the present. I rip open the wrapping to find a new shiny pair of small scissors. I am allowed to trim my moustache. I can’t wait to try them out.

  My trimmed moustache looks like ground black pepper glued above my lips. I have a stolen fantasy of what my first shave will be like. My dad and I are facing the washroom mirror. We have matching white towels around our waists, and our faces are covered in white foam. Our razors are laid out in front of us. He picks his up, shaves a small strip of his cheek, rinses the blade under the tap, and then faces me for my turn, watching to make sure I don’t accidentally cut myself. I pick up my brand-new razor, fighting the nerves in my hand, and try to re-enact exactly what he has done, looking at him all the while from the corner of my eye. We repeat this ritual until our faces are smooth and hurt from smiling.

  My dad tells me how to shave over dinner.

  Can you show me?

  No, it’s easy.

  GIRLS GET PREGNANT

  Lately she has actually been speaking to me! Perhaps she has noted my incredible sense of style, which mostly consists of copying her style—Club Monaco sweatshirt inside-out—or the TLC poster in my locker. Maybe she is finally responding to the friend charm I put on her at the beginning of the year. She will be mine. But it’s Grade Eight, and no one questions when they are chosen. Especially when they are chosen by Vicky Macker and her portal into the land of the Cool Kids. I let her write song lyrics on my neon green plastic pencil kit with Wite-Out, and together we earnestly sing Sheryl Crow and sigh.

  Vicky Macker has dyed her hair red. This added colour radiates from her like she is a new sun, her already bright personality now on fire. I am awestruck.

  Wow, Vicky! Your hair looks soo good!

  Thanks!

  I wish I could dye my hair …

  Oh my god, we should totally dye your hair!

  Really!? What colour?

  Red! Just like mine!

  My hair is black, it won’t work.

  You just need the right kind of hair dye. Like with bleach. Come over and I will do it for you! It will be so much fun!

  This is my induction, my own episode of My So-Called Life. I am the Angela Chase to her Rayanne Graff.

  Mom? Dad? Can I go to Vicky Macker’s house this weekend?

  Vicky Macker? Why do you want to go to her house? We have never met her parents.

  She is going to dye my hair …

  Colour your hair??! Why would you want to colour your beautiful jet-black hair? These people would die for our hair!

  I just want to see what it would look like … if it was red …

  RED? No! The next thing you know Vicky Macker will get pregnant and we can’t afford any alimony.

  SUNDAYS

  After a week of pop quizzes and knives in your back, the weekend is a universal sanctuary. TGIF! But while my classmates have plans of testing out their new fake IDs or hooking up with their best friend’s almost ex-boyfriend, I have been eagerly anticipating something altogether different. Sunday.

  No matter what has happened during the week or what I have been called, I am only a few days away from Sunday.

  I am only a few days away from Sunday.

  On Sundays, believers come together to pray at the Centre, mostly in the form of bhajans, Sanskrit Hindu songs. I pester my parents to drive me there two hours before the prayers begin. When I walk in, I am greeted with familiar sandalwood incense, classical Indian flute playing in the distance, and a large elephant-headed gold statue. I smile and say Sai Ram to the other followers who are all wearing white, head to toe, just like me. No one is an outsider here.

  I stride into the main hall and commence my sadhana. I spread white sheets on the carpet and place rose petals on the holy pathway, each petal an offering from my heart. On the altar stage, I carefully remove last Sunday’s dying flower garlands from the life-sized pictures and make sure there is enough oil in the lamps. I don’t sit down until I am sure the space is perfect. I turn around, and the entire hall, which used to be an old theatre for adult films, is full. The prayers commence with an enormous AUM, and my entire body shakes.

  When it’s my turn to sing, my heart brims with love, and I consciously, tangibly pour that love into every syllable. Tere siva prabhu koi nahi hey tujako mera pranam. I sing loud and full. I want God to hear me. I want the congregation to hear me too. And they do. After the service, when they come to talk to me, I look for the question mark on their foreheads or in their eyes, the one I have grown accustomed to seeing from Mondays to Saturdays, the one that asks various incarnations of: What’s wrong with you?

  Their lips part and it sounds to me like a bhajan, just a different kind. This one is dedicated to me and translates to: We love you! We approve! We wish our children could be just like you!

  I store these melodies and play them on repeat all through the week.

  GOD LIVES IN INDIA

  When man is bad, God comes to Earth in a human body to bring change. This is what I learn in Sunday school. I learn that man has been bad and God, as promised, has come. God lives in India. His name is Sai Baba, which means Divine Mother and Father. I learn that Baba has come to remind everyone that they too are God, but they have just forgotten.

  I understand that I am supposed to be focusing somehow on remembering my own god ways, but it is so much easier to love His. I wear His face around my neck. I plaster my bedroom walls with His photos, transforming it into an enchanted altar, candles included. He is my rock ’n’ roll God, with an Afro to match. I stare at Him for hours. Can you see me? I memorize every name, learn every song, chant every prayer I can find to bring us closer. To bind us. God is my first love.

  I tie a red ribbon around a tree in the field to mark it, render it holy, and I meditate at its foot during recess. I climb the playground hill to speak to Him. I name it Mount Sinai. I speak to Him everywhere, all the time. I ask Him to create a force field around our house to protect my family and me from being kidnapped. I ask Him to make sure I die before my parents and to manifest at my funeral and lift me to the skies. I conjure rain to prove His love for me—Brahma let it rain, Vishnu let it rain—and it pours. In my dreams, I am in a crowd waiting for Him. He walks right to me. We sit together, and He tells me things that I won’t remember in the morning. But having Him actually visit me in my dream confirms our bond. God is my first best friend.

  When we visit Baba in India for the first time, I am ten years old. We drive under giant arches adorned by angels
into the ashram. They sing to me: Welcome home. I get out of the car and kiss the gravel. We line up silently with thousands of others, all dressed in white, and wait in front of His home. It is a grand mixture of mandir meets mansion, painted pastel blue, yellow, and pink like all the other buildings in the ashram, complete with the necessary domes, Hindu-inspired carvings, and glittering chandeliers. Hours pass cross-legged until soft sitar sounds emerge from hidden speakers. All I can hear is my heart. There is a collective gasp and focus at the front. I see orange. It is Him! God in the flesh! He moves gracefully, gliding across the sand, His big hair swirling in the dry breeze. I commit my eyes to Him, absorbing His every gentle gesture and turn. I never want to leave. I am leaving half of my soul here in Your care and will return for it when we can be together.

  At twelve, I tell my parents that they are just my earth parents, just as Baba told His at thirteen. I want to live in India with my true parent. He is calling me. I tell them I will study in His school. But the only way to get into Baba’s school is for Him to accept you in person. My parents agree to grant me my four-month summer holiday to acquire His permission.

  My dad and I fly to India, and after his month of vacation days expires, he leaves me in the care of a mother who is also trying to get her children into His school. Baba will watch over you.

  Every day I take a copy of my application form and wait for Him in the sweltering south-Indian heat, feet blistered, hoping He will pass by me. Do you remember me? Silence. I examine the blessed others, the ones beside me or behind me that Baba graces, speaks to, chooses, determined to uncover the pattern behind His attention. Who does God love? Maybe if I was white, maybe if I was a girl, maybe if I was younger, maybe if I was older, maybe if I was prettier, maybe if I was troubled, maybe if I was kinder, maybe if I fasted, maybe if I recite the Gayathri mantra 108 times, maybe if I didn’t lie to the woman selling flowers yesterday. The other followers feel sorry for me and tell me He is just testing my faith. So I remain hopeful and bend as best I can to fit the newest criteria that my sleuthing has led me to, certain of success each time. He doesn’t take notice. Don’t you remember me?

  Summer is over. I return to Canada. God is my first broken heart.

  DIRTY THOUGHTS

  I had been warned about Rajesh. The students had said, He’s weird. Those words are familiar. I take it upon myself to prove them wrong, to be extra nice to him, saving him a seat next to me in the cafeteria or lending him my favourite book. We are all brothers and sisters, after all, at least in the ashram.

  One afternoon, a couple hours before Baba emerges for evening bhajans, I am exploring the compound, taking advantage of the rare cool air in the midst of the sleepless heat. I hear a familiar voice say Sai Ram. I turn around. It’s Rajesh. I give him a big smile. Sai Ram, Rajesh. I wonder if I should call him Uncle Rajesh, which is the polite thing to do when speaking to elders. He asks if he can join me, and I am thankful for the company. I haven’t seen my family in two months, and aside from the students in Baba’s school who occasionally talk to me, mistaking me for a fellow student, I keep to myself. He tells me about his many visits to the ashram and the blessings he and his family have received from Baba over the years, confirming for me his goodness. He’s not weird, he’s just from a different generation.

  He tells me there is a beautiful garden up ahead that I have to see. I remember my mom telling me how majestic the gardens in India are. Perhaps it will be somewhere I can meditate. We walk further and further away from the ashram. I notice the change in the colour of the sky and remember time.

  How far is it?

  We are almost there … Do you ever have dirty thoughts?

  What do you mean?

  Do you ever have dirty thoughts?

  About?

  You know … Dirty Thoughts? Maybe we should head back. Don’t worry. We’re almost there.

  Would it be all right if you showed me another time? I don’t want to miss a chance to give Baba the letter I wrote.

  Don’t feel bad if you have dirty thoughts. Just pray.

  I turn around and start walking back towards the ashram. Maybe they were right. He doesn’t say anything but continues to walk beside me. I notice that aside from the piles of dirt and dried-out trees, we are alone. I walk a little faster but keep a half smile on my face, only slowing down when the pink and blue ashram gates are visible. Then I remember my letter.

  I forgot something in my room. I should go get it. Thank you for sharing your stories with me. See you around?

  I can come with you …

  No, it’s okay. I will be fine. You should line up so you can get a good view.

  I dart off in the direction of the apartment. He is still walking beside me. When we get there, I tell him I am going to run in and will be out in a second. But he follows me into my small room, which seems to have shrunk since I left it this morning. He sits on my bed. I quickly look for the letter. I am sweating.

  I found it! Let’s go.

  Why don’t you sit next to me …

  We should go.

  Do you not like me?

  I like you, I just don’t want to miss the evening bhajans.

  Just sit next to me for a second.

  I look at him on the bed, sad and hunched over, like the last one to get picked for a team. I know that feeling. He is my brother, I tell myself. I sit down next to him. He lifts his leg and rests it on mine.

  Are you having dirty thoughts?

  I try to push his leg off so I can stand up. It’s heavy and anchored down. He grabs my face with his hands and slams his chapped lips against mine. I close my eyes and hold my breath. I pray. He lets go.

  Did you have dirty thoughts?

  I gasp for air and disappear. I watch as my body quietly lifts off the bed. Leaves the room. Locks the door. Walks back to the ashram. He walks slightly behind me. See you around? he says. Sai Ram, I whisper.

  The letter is still on the bed.

  When the bhajans rise and Baba appears, I fight over the heads in front of me to make eye contact. Where were You this afternoon? Were You testing me? Am I different now? Like spoiled milk.

  I was warned. And I had dirty thoughts.

  SUICIDE JEANS

  When it snows, God is telling me: Stay at home, stay in bed, stay warm.

  It snows a lot.

  Not just outside, but inside my bedroom too. Except inside there are no distinct seasons. It can snow anytime. I am kind of used to it now. Sometimes it’s even pretty, when it covers my entire head and makes all the thinking slow down. But not when it piles and piles up until I can’t get to my closet or get through my door.

  On those days, I dig a tunnel to my ghetto blaster and lie on the cold floor. I put on songs by women with big voices and broken hearts and just listen. Or sing along softly, cry along softly.

  My mom can see the snow in my room. She is the only one who can, because snow follows her too. She tries so hard to melt mine with warm plates of idli and sambar soaked in ghee, but even a full belly can’t stop the snow. She tells me to pray, so I do. I pray for sleep without a morning, dreams without mirrors, and pointing fingers. I pray so hard that I think the glass that protects His pictures will break. I am disappointed when it doesn’t.

  Sometimes she calls my name and can’t hear me respond or I can’t hear her, our voices frozen and suspended in the dense air. She even tries to look for me, but all she sees is snow. This is when her words pierce: You are going to end up just like your uncles.

  This is comforting because both of my uncles are the most loved in their respective families. But still I ask: Where did my uncles end up?

  Suicide is in your jeans.

  I look down at my one pair of blue jeans. There was certainly something special about them. Ever since I put them on, people at school would say hi to me, even ask me to join them at lunchtime. Was this why?

  I put my hands in my pockets. Dried-up Kleenex and a Dubble Bubble gum wrapper. Maybe suicide is very tiny, hiding
under the stitching or the Bugle Boy patches placed there by the tailor as a secret prize for the owner. Maybe it can take different shapes; maybe the button is suicide.

  After my mom’s revelation, I start wearing my jeans more often, and whenever something really good happens, like when my parents increase my allowance or when I find out that I got the role of Lumière in the school production of Beauty and the Beast, I rub my hands on my thighs in excitement and gratitude. It even snows less in my bedroom when I am wearing them, and when I close my eyes I can imagine what it will feel like in a couple months to be on my bike, helmet-free and pedalling really fast under a sun that will try to stay up as late as me.

  One afternoon, my jeans and I head to Social Studies class to find everyone gathered around a sobbing Marnie Jeffreys. I whisper to Larissa: What happened?

  Her cousin killed himself, she whispers back.

  What?

  He committed suicide!

  I rub my hands on my legs but don’t feel the friendly, familiar rough fabric. I feel the soft and bristly disappointment of my own skin. I close my eyes instead of looking down to make sure my jeans are actually still on. I can see my bedroom, and it is snowing again.

  When the bell rings, I wait for everyone to leave the classroom. I run out the side exit of the school and keeping running until I am home.

  The reflection in the giant mirror in our washroom says that my jeans are still on. I stare at them for a long time, wondering how I could dislike something that I loved so much just a few hours ago, something that made me feel like there was no final exam I could fail. How could I resent an extension of my body—a newly grown extra layer of flesh that I now couldn’t imagine living without? But thinking of Marnie’s cousin and my mom’s prediction, it feels as though the jeans and I are in a silent battle, me versus them, and I want to win.

  I think of taking the jeans off and putting them in the garbage before my parents get home or throwing them into the fireplace we never turn on, but I am distracted by an unexpected sound from upstairs. Normally I would call my mom at work, but not today. I am still wearing my jeans.