She of the Mountains Read Online Free PDF Page B

the intimacy. Body and body and wood. Body and body and concrete. Body and body and carpet. Her touch was still painful to him, 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.
    The first time he came, he apologized.
    Why are you sorry?
    Was that okay?
    Well, was it okay for you? She squeezed his shoulder.
    Yes. Yes. It felt amazing.
    After years of hiding and being unseen, her touch was a deep thawing, a permission to feel, a memory of heat lost long ago.



When you were little, I was so worried you would end up fat like your dad, fat like an elephant.
    He had often heard about his fat childhood from his mother, about how his auntie had nicknamed him “Butterball” when his ten fingers became so plump that they joined into two lumpy mounds at the base of his arms. His mom had panicked and taken heed of a co-worker’s advice that she switch his milk from homo to two-percent. Although his fingers separated again, her fear loomed over his teenage years, evidenced by her frequent descriptions of his childhood body as subtle warnings for his adult body. On the rare occasions he looked at himself in the misted bathroom mirror after showering, he cringed at the sight of his round belly, his mother’s foreshadowing ringing in his ears. He was convinced that the words fat and failure were synonymous to his mother because, in her arguments with his dad, she would first attack his weight and then list the rest of his inadequacies:
    FAT
    big-mouthed
    overspender
    selfish
    careless
    brainless
    He tried to be stringent about what he ate, but when he visited his mother’s family, his aunties all said the same thing:
    You are so skinnnnny! Doesn’t your mother feed you?
    There was one body that caused him greater discomfort than his own—his dad’s. His dad would often commence undressing as soon as he walked through the front door, celebrating the end of the work day by shedding layers of clothing throughout their home. Dad! he would whine, frantically picking up the discarded clothes, trying not to look as his dad marched around the house wearing only his torn-up, stretched-out briefs. Why can’t you change in your bedroom like everyone else?
    Even though, by definition, his dad’s name, Sundar, meant beautiful, Sundar himself was repeatedly told otherwise by own mother:
    Sundar is fat like an elephant!
    Sundar had grown up in a home in which his mother was solely responsible for the food. Even though their servants were allowed to help by acquiring and grating and cutting and chopping and rinsing, the actual act of cooking belonged to her. This was more than just a sense of duty or birthright. In the kitchen, she could transform her love into something edible and sustaining for her six children. In the kitchen, her love was tangible and alive. Perhaps this was why Sundar felt closest to his mother here, watching her knead dough until it was smooth, roll it out into a perfect circle, and flip it on the skillet until lightly browned. Sometimes, before dinner was served to the family, she would secretly feed Sundar the rotis, wrapped around aloo mattar, with her bare hands. He felt guilty that his siblings had not yet eaten but, sensing his worry, she would smile and whisper, It’s best when it’s fresh.
    Her smile receded as Sundar got older and his body expanded, mirroring her own enormity. Looking at him, she saw an animal, an elephant made of her own flesh, reflecting her own weight. She began to resent his constant need for nourishment and chastised him when he looked for food in-between meals. This only increased his hunger.
    Sundar could taste the absence of his mother’s love in the food. The roti was bitter, the pilau dry, and, no matter how hot the food was when served, the warmth and taste of the sun was gone. But he kept eating, hoping