She of the Mountains by Vivek Shraya Page A

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, suspended 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.



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