September 2, 2007

"Everyone loved you", he whispers, as we get into bed. Tired after a debaucherous evening with friends. "What's not to love", I whisper back, giddy with my success among his friends. A little too cocky perhaps, but I drift into sleep quickly, aware that this was our best night in a long time. Scruffy's new BFF is a sickening man whore, who if not for his affinity to "hose" without discretion might even be likeable (you are like my sister he says in one breath, and if he weren't doing you- I would he says in the next as he grabs my ass). Scruff in all his endearing naivete thinks he is a loyal friend and a terrific colleague. I think he is scum, and tell them both so, which for some unfathomable reason gets them both to burst into peals of boy laughter. I feel like the outsider with them, I struggle not to begrudge Scruffy his new found friendship, but in the pit of my stomach it aches. The nagging feeling that new BFF is all wrong, and is stealing my Scruff away from me. Insecurity? Not. I think I would be less fraught with despair and annoyance if BFF was a hot 20 year old with shiny legs and washboard abs.

A few weeks later, I find myself as India's lost generation. Between immigration and emigration, we are that sad lot who made the money, learned to roll our Rs, and came back home to find that TGIFriday's stood now where kathi rolls made boy-girl friendships simple. Our time apart hasn't helped me find peace.

48 hours in the air and without port, I land back at the country where I am least lost. My skin is scaly and lips chapped. My hair is dry, brown where it was red a couple of weeks ago. My eyes are glassy, from disappointment. I do a recheck in the mirror, to see if I am ready to meet and greet. As ready as I will be. I imagine.

It piques me when my hand quivers to reach out to him on his return. It piques me to see his hair cut so short. I see the picture hidden in the piles of innocent family shots I tore up from albums, and when Najiba walks in on my lazy morning, I throw it into the bedside drawer. I stole that picture from poor Mustafa, the Staff-maister. Them at the range. The picture with his impish smile, the naughty charm, the impossible kindness, the careless cruelty, the aimless wanderlust, the shifting feet, the pride of his wide chest, the secret fear of reading glasses. All there, all in one picture, my treasure trough. My nightmare.