She of the Mountains Read Online Free
Author: Vivek Shraya
finally reached home, this unknown boy refused to let me in. To our home!
So you cut off his head?
Thatâs not how it happened.
Tell me then, Shiv. I want to understand.
I donât know how to say this. To admit this.
Admit what?
He is silent, save for the hissing of the snakes around his neck. We are standing face to face, and I notice his attentive third eye is closed. Is it hiding from me?
The truth is, I did recognize him, he says softly. Or rather, I saw you in him. How could I not?
He pauses.
You see, in those few moments, I was overcome with love for this beautiful child. For if he had somehow come from your body, I had to love him as I do your eyes, your laughter. Just as I love every extension of you. But, my dear Parvati â¦
But?
This was not just love. He turns his back to me and sighs.
If he had ⦠somehow come from your body, he had to be closer to you, more precious to you. Once you had him, wouldnât you always be aware of our distance? What use could you have for me? What love would you have for an outsider?
Shiv â¦
I am sorry.
Shiv, I love you precisely because I didnât create you.
He liked watching her from a distance.
He admired her indifference to her environment, as though everything and everyone existed only in relation to her and she alone determined their value. She would sing loudly in her office as though she was in her shower, completely unaware that her employees were listening, giggling. And yet, by being truly the centre of her own world, she seemed able to witness and appreciate the world around herâevery structure and fallen leafâwith a genuineness that only someone who wasnât preoccupied with a constant internal dialogue of insecurity could possess. So when she complimented a friend, her motive wasnât secretly to elicit a compliment in return, and when she pointed out the tiny gargoyles seated on top of the Arts Building, it was with sheer curiosity and marvel, the kind he didnât have because he always looked down when he walked. And when he worked.
If only he had looked up, he might have noticed that she was watching him too.
They developed a morning ritual at the beginning of his shifts. She would sit down at the long table in the centre of the office and paint or file her nails as though this was just another task in her dayâs work. But they both understood that she was there, instead of in her office, to talk to him. He made efforts to file and photocopyâbecause he was somewhat invested in making a good impression as an employee, her employeeâbut his work was often derailed by an ever-growing, limitless list of questions he wanted to ask:
What is your favourite colour? Where have you travelled outside of Edmonton? What are you thinking? Where do you like to shop? What is your sun sign? Where were your parents born? What book are you reading? What do you do on Saturday nights? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you �
He liked hearing her speak, the way she e-nun-ci-at-ed ev-er-y syl-la-ble, as though each one meant something. Their exchanges warmed up with the innocent I did such and such on the weekend , moved to the slightly more personal I have this many siblings and pets , and built to the existential This is why I left my religion .
Occasionally, the topic of her boyfriend Morty would surface, and he would listen attentively to every detail to learn as much as he could about the kind of creature that could captivate the captivating.
So, what did you do this weekend?
Oh, Morty and I went to a toga party at his frat house.
Whatâs a toga party?
A stupid party where everyone wears togas and gets drunk and high.
I canât imagine you in a toga. Though I suppose itâs probably like a white sari?
She laughed.
I didnât wear one! But Morty did, of course. She rolled her eyes.
He wasnât convinced of Mortyâs ordinariness by her
So you cut off his head?
Thatâs not how it happened.
Tell me then, Shiv. I want to understand.
I donât know how to say this. To admit this.
Admit what?
He is silent, save for the hissing of the snakes around his neck. We are standing face to face, and I notice his attentive third eye is closed. Is it hiding from me?
The truth is, I did recognize him, he says softly. Or rather, I saw you in him. How could I not?
He pauses.
You see, in those few moments, I was overcome with love for this beautiful child. For if he had somehow come from your body, I had to love him as I do your eyes, your laughter. Just as I love every extension of you. But, my dear Parvati â¦
But?
This was not just love. He turns his back to me and sighs.
If he had ⦠somehow come from your body, he had to be closer to you, more precious to you. Once you had him, wouldnât you always be aware of our distance? What use could you have for me? What love would you have for an outsider?
Shiv â¦
I am sorry.
Shiv, I love you precisely because I didnât create you.
He liked watching her from a distance.
He admired her indifference to her environment, as though everything and everyone existed only in relation to her and she alone determined their value. She would sing loudly in her office as though she was in her shower, completely unaware that her employees were listening, giggling. And yet, by being truly the centre of her own world, she seemed able to witness and appreciate the world around herâevery structure and fallen leafâwith a genuineness that only someone who wasnât preoccupied with a constant internal dialogue of insecurity could possess. So when she complimented a friend, her motive wasnât secretly to elicit a compliment in return, and when she pointed out the tiny gargoyles seated on top of the Arts Building, it was with sheer curiosity and marvel, the kind he didnât have because he always looked down when he walked. And when he worked.
If only he had looked up, he might have noticed that she was watching him too.
They developed a morning ritual at the beginning of his shifts. She would sit down at the long table in the centre of the office and paint or file her nails as though this was just another task in her dayâs work. But they both understood that she was there, instead of in her office, to talk to him. He made efforts to file and photocopyâbecause he was somewhat invested in making a good impression as an employee, her employeeâbut his work was often derailed by an ever-growing, limitless list of questions he wanted to ask:
What is your favourite colour? Where have you travelled outside of Edmonton? What are you thinking? Where do you like to shop? What is your sun sign? Where were your parents born? What book are you reading? What do you do on Saturday nights? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you �
He liked hearing her speak, the way she e-nun-ci-at-ed ev-er-y syl-la-ble, as though each one meant something. Their exchanges warmed up with the innocent I did such and such on the weekend , moved to the slightly more personal I have this many siblings and pets , and built to the existential This is why I left my religion .
Occasionally, the topic of her boyfriend Morty would surface, and he would listen attentively to every detail to learn as much as he could about the kind of creature that could captivate the captivating.
So, what did you do this weekend?
Oh, Morty and I went to a toga party at his frat house.
Whatâs a toga party?
A stupid party where everyone wears togas and gets drunk and high.
I canât imagine you in a toga. Though I suppose itâs probably like a white sari?
She laughed.
I didnât wear one! But Morty did, of course. She rolled her eyes.
He wasnât convinced of Mortyâs ordinariness by her
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