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Authors: Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla
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across the room as she had narrated the story, returned to her son just as he polished off the meal. “More?” She asked, pointing a manicured finger at his plate.
“No, no. No way, ” he said, leaning back and patting his stomach.
“Maybe I should have extended the story.”
He laughed. “No, really, Mom. I’m stuffed. I’m gonna’ have to make up for this with another hour at the gym.”
“If you want to go, no need to worry about me, Ajay. I’ll be fine.”
“Ah, it’s alright. I’ll just go tomorrow.”
“Really,” she said. “Go. Go work out. I’m okay now.”
“You sure?” he said, studying her face intently.
“Very, very sure,” she replied, touching his.
“Okay, well, just an hour or so of cardio. Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll just clean up.” She pointed at his cell phone. “It’s probably going to explode if you don’t turn it back on.”
Ajay rose to his feet, kissed her forehead. He sprinted up the stairs and disappeared into his room, where he changed into his gym clothes. She sat in her chair for a few minutes longer, culling a strange comfort in the sound of him moving through the now respiring house. Only a short time ago, she had sought solace from sounds of other peoples’ lives but now her world had come alive again. She had bonded with her little Ajay again and he had wiped away her tears just as she had licked them off his cheeks when he was a baby, each tear a glistening, briny pearl.
Before leaving, he gave her another concerned look, the softness in him returning. She assured him that she was okay, reminded him not to mention it to his father. She cleared the table, loading the dishes into the dishwasher thinking of what he had said about her tears— “It’s only water.” She waited until she heard the sound of Ajay’s red Mustang pull out of the driveway, and then, taking deep breaths, went up to their room and locked the door behind her, the gold bangles on her wrist clinking hauntingly in the air. It’s only water.
* * *
Self-acceptance was a prerequisite to tolerance from others. Atif realized this early on when he moved to Los Angeles as a lonely teenager. Since God, in his malleability, was always used to justify oppression, Atif figured it was best to seek answers in the many works authored by Him.
Atif started with the Koran. Allah seemed contradictory and wily. Verse 4:16 said: “If two men among you is guilty of lewdness, punish them both” yet in Verse 76:19 God promised: “And round about them will serve boys of perpetual freshness: if thou seest them, thou wouldst think them scattered pearls.” So it was prohibited on earth, but Muslims could look forward to homosexuality in Paradise. The word of Allah made him more confused than he already was.
In a dusty book in the Eastern Studies section in his college library in Burbank, Atif found a story from the Shiva Puranas in which Agni, the same fire-god that consecrated marriages, was summoned to swallow the scalding semen of the god Shiva so that the warrior-god Kartikeya could be born to slay a demon. The epic Hindu tale failed to mention why the all-powerful deity couldn’t simply impregnate a woman or just take care of the nuisance himself.
So he ventured further, into testaments new and old, and found that the Old Testament vehemently condemned homosexuality, while Christ never even bothered to mention it, too busy making wine out of water when not walking on it. According to the Kabbalah it was a disease, much like chickenpox or leprosy, which could be cured. Only in Sufism and Hinduism did Atif find an unconditional acceptance of same-sex love, in its mythic tales and stirring poems, although he was aware that both Muslims and Hindus were notorious for their intolerance of it.
Legendary mystics like Jelaluddin Rumi and Farid ud-Din Attar had written evocatively about the love between two men—the ecstasy in their melding, the scorn and outrage it incited amongst the people, and the
“No, no. No way, ” he said, leaning back and patting his stomach.
“Maybe I should have extended the story.”
He laughed. “No, really, Mom. I’m stuffed. I’m gonna’ have to make up for this with another hour at the gym.”
“If you want to go, no need to worry about me, Ajay. I’ll be fine.”
“Ah, it’s alright. I’ll just go tomorrow.”
“Really,” she said. “Go. Go work out. I’m okay now.”
“You sure?” he said, studying her face intently.
“Very, very sure,” she replied, touching his.
“Okay, well, just an hour or so of cardio. Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll just clean up.” She pointed at his cell phone. “It’s probably going to explode if you don’t turn it back on.”
Ajay rose to his feet, kissed her forehead. He sprinted up the stairs and disappeared into his room, where he changed into his gym clothes. She sat in her chair for a few minutes longer, culling a strange comfort in the sound of him moving through the now respiring house. Only a short time ago, she had sought solace from sounds of other peoples’ lives but now her world had come alive again. She had bonded with her little Ajay again and he had wiped away her tears just as she had licked them off his cheeks when he was a baby, each tear a glistening, briny pearl.
Before leaving, he gave her another concerned look, the softness in him returning. She assured him that she was okay, reminded him not to mention it to his father. She cleared the table, loading the dishes into the dishwasher thinking of what he had said about her tears— “It’s only water.” She waited until she heard the sound of Ajay’s red Mustang pull out of the driveway, and then, taking deep breaths, went up to their room and locked the door behind her, the gold bangles on her wrist clinking hauntingly in the air. It’s only water.
* * *
Self-acceptance was a prerequisite to tolerance from others. Atif realized this early on when he moved to Los Angeles as a lonely teenager. Since God, in his malleability, was always used to justify oppression, Atif figured it was best to seek answers in the many works authored by Him.
Atif started with the Koran. Allah seemed contradictory and wily. Verse 4:16 said: “If two men among you is guilty of lewdness, punish them both” yet in Verse 76:19 God promised: “And round about them will serve boys of perpetual freshness: if thou seest them, thou wouldst think them scattered pearls.” So it was prohibited on earth, but Muslims could look forward to homosexuality in Paradise. The word of Allah made him more confused than he already was.
In a dusty book in the Eastern Studies section in his college library in Burbank, Atif found a story from the Shiva Puranas in which Agni, the same fire-god that consecrated marriages, was summoned to swallow the scalding semen of the god Shiva so that the warrior-god Kartikeya could be born to slay a demon. The epic Hindu tale failed to mention why the all-powerful deity couldn’t simply impregnate a woman or just take care of the nuisance himself.
So he ventured further, into testaments new and old, and found that the Old Testament vehemently condemned homosexuality, while Christ never even bothered to mention it, too busy making wine out of water when not walking on it. According to the Kabbalah it was a disease, much like chickenpox or leprosy, which could be cured. Only in Sufism and Hinduism did Atif find an unconditional acceptance of same-sex love, in its mythic tales and stirring poems, although he was aware that both Muslims and Hindus were notorious for their intolerance of it.
Legendary mystics like Jelaluddin Rumi and Farid ud-Din Attar had written evocatively about the love between two men—the ecstasy in their melding, the scorn and outrage it incited amongst the people, and the
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