She of the Mountains by Vivek Shraya

everywhere. When Smith later jerked off both of their penises, he was uncomfortable with how much darker his penis was than Smith’s. He was convinced that if their penises were at war, his penis would be typecast as the evil one, the villain.
    What bewildered him most about being intimate with another man was the absence of the Eureka! moment he had been anticipating and had even been promised by gay males he knew, now that he was finally with the right sex, the same sex.
    Don’t worry. Once with you’re with a man, everything will make sense , they had said.
    But there was no great confirmation of his homosexuality with
    Smith either through
    more frequent orgasms,
    or harder erections
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  or the sound of trumpets
    or a sweeping feeling of superior satisfaction
    or freedom
    or truth
    or home                    
    or peace.
    When he put his lips around Smith’s penis or pushed his own penis into Smith’s firm ass, he felt an undeniable pleasure, but not undeniably more than the pleasure he had experienced with her.
    It was just different.

In the minutes before sunrise, when Smith’s desk, bookshelf, and their pile of clothing on the floor would gradually bear the light of a new day, he found himself thinking about her. Missing her. Her face, the colour of palaces in Jaipur. Her upturned lips that smiled even while she dreamed, her crown of curly hair, her eyes that were stars in their own right.



Even in my human life, my heart belonged to Shiv.
    Long before Ganesh and Muruga were born, I chose to be born to a human family. For years, they had had difficulty conceiving, and I was a gift, unbeknownst to them, for their generations of great piety. They named me Sati.
    From an early age, I was captivated by the stories of the recluse god who lived in the mountains, even though my human father despised him:
    He wears only the skin of a leopard.
    And the crescent moon in his hair.
    He refuses to speak—to anyone! How arrogant!
    Why is he a god? What is so great about him?
    Being mortal clouded my memory. I didn’t know who I was or who Shiv was, but I knew I was drawn to his alien-ness, perhaps because he embodied the disconnection I too felt to my human body. Every night, I prayed:
    Dear Lord Shiva:
    Please appear for me.
    I adore you.
    Another reason that I had adopted a human life was that we both agreed it would be a new way for us to experience each other, love each other. From the day I was born, Shiv was equally captivated by my human form and its vulnerability, and watched over me from above like a second father. He was amused by my devotion to him and couldn’t help but entertain himself further at my expense. Occasionally, he would appear in my peripheral vision and then suddenly disappear so that I would think that I was imagining him everywhere. This only heightened my yearning for him.
    To celebrate and bless my coming of age as a woman, my father arranged a ceremony and feast, and everyone from the town was invited. The gods were invited. For every day that passed, I added one brightly coloured flower to my hair in anticipation of meeting Shiv. On the day of the event, my entire head was covered in a crown of flowers.
    My father walked me into the hall toward the blazing sacred fire, which was surrounded by priests cloaked in cream-coloured robes, chanting loudly in unison. I scanned the hundreds of faces, friends and distant relatives, trying to find the one blue face that mattered.
    Before I sat down, I whispered to my father:
    I don’t see Shiva. Do you think he will come?
    Shiva? Ha! Why would I invite that freak?
    He wasn’t invited? But all the gods were invited. It would be a grave insult …
    Sati, now is not the time.
    You are just jealous that his greatness surpasses yours, aren’t you!?
    The fire rose and crackled with the sound of my voice.
    Silence,