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    She of the Mountains
    She of the Mountains
    She of the Mountains
    Ebook131 pages1 hour

    She of the Mountains

    By Vivek Shraya

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    About this ebook

    Finalist, Lambda Literary Award

    In the beginning, there is no he. There is no she.

    Two cells make up one cell. This is the mathematics behind creation. One plus one makes one. Life begets life. We are the period to a sentence, the effect to a cause, always belonging to someone. We are never our own.

    This is why we are so lonely.


    She of the Mountains is a beautifully rendered illustrated novel by Vivek Shraya, the author of the Lambda Literary Award finalist God Loves Hair. Shraya weaves a passionate, contemporary love story between a man and his body, with a re-imagining of Hindu mythology. Both narratives explore the complexities of embodiment and the damaging effects that policing gender and sexuality can have on the human heart.

    Illustrations are by Raymond Biesinger, whose work has appeared in such publications as The New Yorker and the New York Times.

    Vivek Shraya is a multimedia artist, working in the mediums of music, performance, literature, and film. His most recent film, What I LOVE about Being QUEER, has been expanded to include an online project and book with contributions from around the world. He is also author of God Loves Hair.

    This publication meets the EPUB Accessibility requirements and it also meets the Web Content Accessibility Guidelines (WCAG-AA). It is screen-reader friendly and is accessible to persons with disabilities. A Simple book with few images, which is defined with accessible structural markup. This book contains various accessibility features such as alternative text for images, table of contents, page-list, landmark, reading order and semantic structure.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArsenal Pulp Press
    Release dateSep 22, 2014
    ISBN9781551525617
    Author

    Vivek Shraya

    Vivek Shraya is an artist whose body of work crosses the boundaries of music, literature, visual art, theatre, and film. Her best-selling book I’m Afraid of Men was heralded by Vanity Fair as “cultural rocket fuel.” She is the founder of the award-winning publishing imprint VS. Books that supports emerging BIPOC writers. A seven-time Lambda Literary Award finalist, Shraya lives in Treaty 7 territory, where she is Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Calgary.

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    • 4/5
      Essentially a story of becoming safe and comfortable in your own skin, Shraya disarmingly interweaves snippets of the Hindu story of Shiva, Parvati, and Ganesha with that of a young Indian-Canadian man just finding his way emotionally, sexually, and socially into adulthood. Although long "categorized" by those around him as gay, much of the book recounts an engulfing relationship with a woman, which shows in a direct and startling way just how detrimental narrow labels are. Getting grief from gay and straight friends alike for not hewing closely to one "side"—and here Shraya handles the story beautifully—he just keeps moving forward, somehow permitting the course dictated by his spirit to lead him. The intertwined Hindu myth narrative illuminates this quest subtly as well as deeply.

    Book preview

    She of the Mountains - Vivek Shraya

    Parvati

    A graphical image of Parvati with four hands. Parvati holds the world in the upper left arm and a weapon in the upper right arm. Another pair of arms are relaxed as she stands still. An animal sits behind her.

    I am the mother of the universe.

    I am the planets and the years of darkness and light in between.

    I am the oceans, the sky, the land, the air—the four corners.

    I am life itself, the spark that makes a heart pump, that keeps a tree alive for centuries, green and reaching.

    I am Parvati.

    Today, I need a shower. Life can be filthy.

    I apply a paste made of crushed sandalwood and jasmine to my skin with a circular motion. Right-hand fingers slowly spread over left hand, over left wrist, around left elbow, up left arm, over left shoulder.

    I sing, but no one can hear me. The notes are too high, the melody too beautiful. Not even my husband can hear me—not just because he is out hunting right now. Shiv, my beloved Shiv, is often buried deep within his own mind, seduced by the possibility of an even quieter silence, a firmer stillness, the kind that borders death. Sometimes I think he has more in common with the corpses in that graveyard he has been dancing in lately than he does with me.

    The First Song was born from pure grief. It happened the instant I felt the heartbeat of the first life form, my first child, stop. I was at the foot of our mountain Kailash when my mouth opened in pain, and the first notes, too high to be a scream, too beautiful to be a howl, ran up from my diaphragm through my throat and into the dawn. Being married to Shiv, Lord of Destruction, I understood the necessity of death, but this did not make my loss any easier to endure. Days passed in song and mourning, and I vowed never to create life again.

    But is there anything more consoling, more exhilarating, than creation itself?

    I look down at my body, covered in brown paste that lightens as it hardens, and wait patiently. When the paste is firm and tan, I gently peel it off, this time starting at my right toe, over right ankle, up right calf, over right knee, up right leg. I sing a different song, my voice cascading like desert sands, each peak unique and transient. The tiny hairs along the newly exposed skin respond to my voice, standing at full attention. But it’s not just my own body that responds.

    I notice that the crumbled paste in my hands is softening to my song, turning golden. Excited, I continue singing and removing the paste from my body, adding it to the other remnants in my hand. My song gets clearer and faster, the flow of air in my throat running effortlessly back and forth over the scale, stopping briefly at the mid-notes, creating the sound of wind gliding over rivers and eroding stone.

    I am naked now. All the paste has been removed and formed into a radiant ball of clay that vibrates with the sound of my voice. My hands take over: they pull, ply, roll, mould, and stretch the clay.

    I know what’s happening in my hands. I know this feeling so well, but every time, I weep. With every sprout of grass, every bursting new star, I weep.

    When I clear the water from my eyes, I see that I am standing face to face with a statue of a young boy. With my final note, he opens his eyes.

    Without hesitation, I pull him into my arms and say: Your name is Ganesha. Ganesha, my son.

    He says nothing, but I know he can hear me, his eyelids fluttering. I tell Ganesha to guard our home while I rinse off.

    Let no one in. Under any circumstance.

    It is not protection I seek, but a moment for myself, a moment undisturbed by the prayers and plights of my children. As I finish the final part of my cleanse, rinsing the oil and salt of creation off my body, I can’t help but sing as I think of my new son. For a moment, I think I can even hear him humming along in the distance, and again I cry.

    When I emerge, I find Ganesha’s head on the doorstep, next to his headless body.

    The first time she put her hand on his body, he winced.

    And the second time.

    The third time, he cried.

    The fifty-seventh time.

    Then, gradually, he began to lose count. He relaxed. Her touch was still painful, but now, instead of fearing it, fearing what her hands might discover, the ugly they might find, the coarseness of a terrain unclaimed or untravelled, he anticipated it. He desired it.

    After years of hiding and being unseen, her touch was a deep thawing, a memory of heat lost long ago.

    GO!

    He waited for the boys to push past him before he picked up his feet and trailed behind with a slow, contented jog. Every so often, when one of the boys passed him on their fourth or fifth round of the track, he would catch a whiff of their sweat and competitive spirit. He recalled what his mother had said about his long legs being destined for greatness as his body picked up speed. For a short distance, with every thrust forward and every leap into the air, he felt boundless, weightless. Looking up at the sky instead of straight ahead, he briefly mirrored its vast possibility. A shortage of air soon deflated his flight back to a jog. Panting, he reminded himself that the exhilaration he had momentarily experienced was what mattered.

    This logic was wrong and was corrected with two words. You’re gay, the other boys said when he finished the race last.

    At first, he was certain that they could have used any two words. The assault was in the repetition:

    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,

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