Read She of the Mountains for Free Online Page B

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,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  sexy,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  hilarious,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  adventurous,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  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 his needs. He didn’t like her because she was another person whose approval he craved or merelybecause 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