bhuva's Xanga

Uphill Climb

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 10:36:29 GMT

It has been close to a year since I chose to be absent. Rather, since absence chose me. But as I prepare for what promises to be the biggest test of my endurance, it seems like the challenge must be documented. This year has been so many things. It has come with the unfortunate saga of love, a tiresome indulgence of travel, an exhausting relocation, a mindnumbing slump, many half truths, and plenty of G&Ts.

I moved to Sudan 2.5 months ago, to myself desperately out of my slump. Juba Sudan only made that slump worse. Now I am pushing myself to climb a mountain, in the hope that perhaps physical punishment will make the rest of it seem that much simpler. The mountain is the world's largest freestanding one, Kilimanjaro, looming over east Africa. 7 days of gruelling torture, at least for me, probably among the least fit million people in the world. I am taking the Machame "whiskey" route, starting on the 29th and making a summit attempt (if I even get that far) on the 4th. Wow! As I read my grandiose plan, the words that echo through my head are "Mad or what?!"

It seems though like the perfect idea - to let the focus of physical pain override every thing else. To stand on (or near will also do) the mountain and pray that

Not taking laptop on grand adventure. New macbook must remain healthy. The plan is to photo-document the trip and write on a small notepad about the day.

Status update
Days for holidays: 2.
Plan for holiday: 7 days climb to Kilimanjaro, followed by trip to Masai Mara and then chill on beach at Mombasa.
Current location: Juba, South Sudan
Diet: Vegetable Biryani from Salaam hotel, or Spicy fried rice from Wonderful Chinese Restaurant. Everyday.
Number of recent untruths: 2 to mom, and 1/2 to non-boyfriend.
Weight: unchanged in 6 months.
Latest discovery: One leg is shorter than the other, explaining a LOT of things.
Biggest regret: Comet
In sum: Popat honar!

Diseased

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 10:33:45 GMT

It has taken a deep hold of me. No matter what I do, no matter how I distract myself, I still go back for more. It prods me at all hours. Waking me when I am sound asleep, nudging me when I am filling out my timesheet, upsetting my well-wrought schedule, for a just little bit more. Unreachable, yet tempting. Reachable sometimes but barely. Lingering in thoughts of maybe-vacations, and a definitely-not living arrangements. It twists my rubber arm even if I pose a strict restriction, causing me to cheat. It rolls me over on my back and around again till I aquiesce. Sometimes it teases me with the promise of a breakdown, sometimes it forces me into hysterical submission. Sometimes it gently calls out, and by the time I reach out, it is ready and waiting to maul me. It won't cut me slack, it refuses to budge on its demands. It hurts me, yet I don't protest, in the silent shameful way that sadomasochists revel in that which shows the worst of them.

Desire possesses me, and woe that it won't relent. Woe that it lies and cheats and batters and bruises. Yet I run after it, smiling guiltily as I walk up the stairs. Trembling in my defenceless ardor. In my shameless surrender. I follow it all the way. Again and again. Exquisite in its ruthlessness, it chases me if I run, and leads me astray if I follow.

Friday, October 05, 2007

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 12:37:57 GMT

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.

Longing and Ending

Sun, 23 Sep 2007 03:57:49 GMT

Port after port after port after port. Shrivelled, tired of waiting, and longing, and begging, and being shocked. Never surprised. Not kissed any more, not held, not rocked. Only shocked. Yet and yet.

To Paris, I was singing. Now I am not.

I gave him his ticket this morning. Now he can Fuck Off and be the Bad Boy he is. It isn't a happy ending at all.

I will stay, till I make Financial Milestone Number 2. See, it is all about money. And I think money will make me happy. Yes, most definitely it will.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Wed, 09 May 2007 05:51:10 GMT

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Long Time Gone

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 05:51:07 GMT

Early summer. Quiet swishing of unsettled breezes, preparing to storm the lowlands. Look away or you will get dust in your eyes. A bike ride at midnight through the narrow streets of old Delhi. Tank empyting quickly but seeing he doesn't seem worried, you silence the panic. Vicious carelessness ullulating in your head. A new freedom was rolled up in newspaper and presented over the new year. So anxiously grabbed, because suddenly it wasn't foreign. That which belonged to someone else, and that which you relentlessly sniped at being conservative intelligentia.

Twisted words, longing eyes, and ripe music. Favourite moments include kissing his neck after he twirled you in your high heel shoes, breaking his resistance. Finding a dark corner in the penumbra, to delay going home by that much. Lapped it up laughing, enjoying the onlookers' discomfort and surprise. Fluttering eyelids, callous, playing for gratification. Kissing without wetting, just to say everything that must be said, but can't be voiced. The deepest unrelenting kind of touch. Lazy mornings of breakfast and the Sunday paper where he teased your obsessive compulsive Type-A crossword behaviour; You see 33 Down - thats L-O-S-E-R.

Yet, you couldn't walk the bridge to the flip side.

The phone rings and wakes me out of my reverie, bring me back from ago. Its Easter Sunday morning, the time when he, Scruffy, is most unlikely to call. Unlikelier still when he is on a boat on far seas. His voice excitedly says Hi, the voice broken by inhaling glass fumes, now tempered by middle eastern winds and by the reluctance of the boat to let voices flow. In my excitement and desperation, I talk over him, the lag confuses our words, till its not a conversation but two logs of things done. I can see my impatience confuse the line, and he laughs to chide me for being impatient. In 10 days I won't have to worry about lags.

My aunt turned 60 the other day. When I called to remind her, she smarmily said you are almost half my age. I realised when you are old, the wrinkles gnaw at your humor. But the taste of your young days keep the lips upturned in tight smugness. I wonder if I will be the cruel old lady, the one who will not thank you when you walk her across the road, and tell you that when she was your age she had two children and a house and all you have is mindless wandering. I should remember next time to tell my aunt that when she was my age she had already chased herself away till she was left with only a shadow and a mortgage not even her own. While I have two sets of dreams, have had many lovers, and a passport full of stickers. Not to mention war stories, and scars to show for them.

A Year in Pictures

Thu, 22 Mar 2007 09:52:29 GMT

Its been more than a year I moved base. Here is how some of it went!

Flying in

Houses on Kabul Hillsides

The Lion of Panjshir

Shining New Recruits

Urchins in Charikhar

Carpet Seller

Afghan Handsomeness

Ridiculous Monkey-like Behaviour

Panjshir Valley

Remains of war

Equipment

Ghosht Do Pyaaza and Blue Cola

Sneaky

Masoud's Bodyguard

Patrons of the Chai Khana

AKs, MP5, and taped magazines

Be Prepared

One Brazilian and our Afghan Boys

Learning to Shoot the Mackerov

Collecting Shells

Pretty Boy Toys

I have a hat

Unorthodox Grand Gestures

How much longer here I wonder.

One year...

Sun, 18 Mar 2007 10:59:50 GMT

It was harmless enough. There was one ignorant grammar-school product arguing relentlessly about the benevolence of British imperialism, there was one agitated Indian girl furiously holding ground, there were several spectators, and there was one lone supporter for the Indian girl, sitting quietly by her pouring wine into fast emptying glasses, back in the days when it was easier to find juice in the city.

Back and forth the arguments went, it turned bitter and unpleasant. Wine-pourer ran to get more wine. I propped my legs for comfort on the empty chair. When he returned he kindly noticing cold feet, let them warm under his perch. There was a moment when the touching speaks to you. And you quickly, recklessly decide to abandon reason and slip into his room.

One year ago, such a thing happened to me. And Scruffy wine pourer and I became more than friends.

One year later, I am waiting for a phone call from GMT+1 to put my mind to rest. Sleep has been elusive as I think about cryptic crosswords and swimming lessons. I booked my tickets today so I could understand what is important. It is cloudy and cold outside, but I have promised that I will refrain for a week. From being impetuous. And other bad habits.

40 Days of Lent

Thu, 08 Mar 2007 09:48:52 GMT

The only thing I know about Lent is that monkey lovin' is out of the program for 40 days and nights. Scruffy left this morning to go another exciting assignment where there are boats and guns, two things he decisively loves. I see him again in 40 (give or take a few) days and during this time as per our exclusivity clause, I get to stay celibate. And him. Hopefully. He didn't give me his answer. I forgot to ask again.

It has been exactly 8 hours to our pre-departure rendezvous, an equivalent of a full working day. He is already in another country on the lash with friends, and in another 24 hours he will be home. I get to see him at another airport in 40 days, and to test if we we make a fit in a saner environment.

I expect it will be lovely, I expect I will get to hold his hand anytime I want and demand him completely. I expect we will walk along a sunset beach. And that sand will get into inconvenient places. Perhaps we will tell each other how farther we are willing to travel, perhaps we won't say very much. It might turn into monkey-lovin' tourism. Or maybe it will be about old stories of Russian roulette in Mexico and lesbian lovers in high towers. This will be my first vacation with a boy, and I am playing the odds. Praying that the odds will play me too and humor me.

This vacation I need to tell scruffy some things- that he should humor me more, that he needs to be in my space a little more, that occassionally I would like him to show up on his own, and keep his promises. The romance of silence works only for so long, then it makes your gut hurt from being held in a crunch for too long.

I saw Bony over lunch, and he said every time you think about it feel your stomach and breathe. For my part, I am going to try and listen to him.

Logistical Difficulties

Sat, 24 Feb 2007 13:27:32 GMT

X and I always had our special code language. Inside jokes and personal quirks became sybmolic phrases and relationship idioms. Pachak-esque was our favourite, and logistical difficulties was the most used. Anytime we were being scrutinised across the room by watchful parents curious about who was on the other end of the phone, it was simple to say logistical difficulties or environmental problems and switch gear to educational matters. If you thought one set of South Indian Iyer parents was difficult, try two sets. We were walked in on during our timid make-out sessions guised as mid word-list preparation or essential software installation by grandmothers, by my dad, and even the cleaning lady.

I feel like I am there again with Scruffy. Finding our own marked space is impossible. Yesterday, watching a documentary on Afghan coalition action on the Beeb, we were walked in on by a colleague. Usually I resist sititng in the lounge because that does not offer free reign to my overly tactile tendencies. The only marginally private space we have is my room, since the floor is pretty much empty. In recent months, this room has become more used and less resisted (by him) than before. Still, staying over is never an option, quickies have to be timed to perfection, and evidence destruction must be paid particular attention to (by us). Despite all care, Farzana finds sordid details of my bedroom habits. Scruffy bribes her every month to be quiet. I doubt she would say very much, but even so he tips her just to make doubly sure. And also because he recognises how unpleasant her job must be. Sometimes I am ready to throw caution to the wind, and make it noticeable, but then I recognise Scruffy's reluctance. After all I am his secret affair, I aquiesce.

It isn't over just yet. Perhaps I over-reacted. To Scruffy it was yet another one of our spats. To me it brought home just how tentatively stacked we are. Tonight he is off to watch Engerland play Ireland. I am off to see the girls for some gossip. We went out as a couple for the first time a few days after the spat. With live music, and his bad knee, we sat close. Saying unimportant but pretty things. Then we went on the lash with sexually aggressive friends and ill-placed medics. Finally we came home and slept like we have never slept together. Dead to the world, and irreverent to the alarm clock.

P.S - Scruffy reads here, hence the rescind.