April 10, 2014
To the moon and back. We’ve been out of the stronghold of gravity, floating around in our obscure little patch of space, and now we’re back to the heavy zone, weighed down by the mass of our desires and our fears—pulled down by the gravity of facts.
Sajjad is back to the country that has laid claim upon him, and I—I am back to my state of inertia. Tagged to the end of this inertia, though, is a fresh promise: the visit visa. It’s a consolation prize of sorts, to make up for the dearth of actual victories. Instead of the family visa for all of us to live together in the promised land, this would be a two-month passageway to happiness. The next best thing. For two months, his son and I would get a chance to stay with him in the country that hosted him now. It wasn’t exactly what we’d been trying to get all this while, but it was something. Something to hold on to.
It’s just so doable, there isn’t the faintest edge of doubt attached. Sajjad is very sure of this—one more month of waiting and this time I’ll be with him in Oman. Briefly, yes, but I’ll be there. And so, despite having sworn myself off it, I start making a list.
Now, I’m a compulsive list maker. And I’ve made quite a few lists in the past two years. The first time: when there were no plans to move abroad and we were simply looking at another house to move into. I made an elaborate list of all the furniture and home appliances we’d be buying, because our first home had been a fully furnished one.
Oh, what joy lies in the making of lists! A little bit of order in the disorderly world, or perhaps just a scatter-brain’s feeble attempt at putting things in one place. That it never bode well for me was a different matter altogether.
We did actually find the perfect house to rent, but right after I made my list, the home-owner just changed his mind and sold off the house instead! The second time I made my list was when my husband got his visa for Oman, and because I was blinded with optimism and expected to join him there in no more than two months—four months tops— very joyously I made a list of all the things I would be needing to take along with me. I should have just heeded the signs from the first time instead.
But after the second time, I’d sworn to myself I’d never make a list again. And yet, 10 months later, here I am, making another list. A small one—fit for a two-month visit. A cheerful list that speaks of hopes rising again, despite themselves, likes winged seeds rising with the wind, knowing well it’s not they who can fly.
And because there’s no stopping me once I get going, I make another list—of all the places we would visit in Muscat during those two months. Wadi Shab, Shatti Beach, Turtle Beach, Muttrah Corniche, Muttrah Souq, Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque… the attractions seem endless and choosing is quite a task. A deliciously thrilling task that reminds me of all those days we spent planning vacations together, fantasy vacations that involved island resorts, water villas, steaming Jacuzzis and reef explorations in Maldives. This was always our little thing, the thing we did together. Planning vacations—real or imagined.
We would get together and chart out every detail—from arrival to departure, accomodations to excursions and everything in between. That it might not materialise any time soon was inconsequential—what mattered was the exhilaration of planning those holidays together. What mattered was the satisfaction of knowing we would, one day, experience and explore the universe with our fingers intertwined. The image alone was heady enough.
But that was then, when we literally, physically had each other—to talk, to touch and hold. The images now are held together by a string of a promise, fragile and frayed, far too delicate for the combined weight of all the expectations banking upon it.
May 1, 2014
It was bound to happen—the weight was far too great. Another promise caves in on itself. Well, not really—it just keeps hanging in the air like all the others, neither here nor there.
“What’s the update, when do we go?” I ask, for the tenth time perhaps.
“The visit visa is still pending…” he replies briefly. “Sweetheart I’m fed up of waiting, too. Believe me, I’m trying…” his voice floats over the phone—weary, frustrated.
I sigh in exasperation. My faith is, at long last, beginning to wane—my unshaking belief that things are exactly as I’m being told. Of all the terrible things to happen to a relationship, the worst is the waning of trust. The slow, serpentine dance of doubt.
I say nothing, but my mind hardens into a resolve to find out the truth. I decide to text the only other person I know in Oman; let’s call him Mr Y, shall we? He’s the one who had first floated this offer to Sajjad, the offer of a new sugar-coated life.
I tell him, in plain words, that I need to know what exactly is going on there.
“Just tell me the truth, okay?” I text him. “Is the visit visa pending for approval still?”
“No. It’s not pending. It hasn’t been applied yet.”
I draw in a sharp breath—of anger, outrage. Calm down, I tell myself. Give the man some credit—he did give you the honest truth.
“Oh.” I text back. “Why?”
“We’ve suffered major losses in the business— a partner committed major fraud and made away with several crores from the coffers.” That wasn’t a surprise to me—I already knew about it. But that was a while ago, hadn’t they recovered from those losses yet, I wonder. Moreover, the promise for the visit visa was made to me after this whole fiasco, not before. I’m perplexed.
“House rents have gone up majorly in the past two years,” comes another text, before I can respond. But this wasn’t something you said two years ago when you invited us, I think. Again, another text hits me before I can reply.
“And any way, even if you were here, you’d be alone at home all day, wouldn’t you.”
Anger blooms in me. These were a far cry from things he said two years ago. My mind clouds over with rage and I think of a hundred stinging things to say. But I keep shut, for my husband’s sake—my confrontation-avoiding, conflict-hating husband.
Another text pops up: “Plus, think of all those women 10-15 years ago, whose husbands lived abroad. Just think how they coped.”
Now this is just a text and I can almost hear a righteous smirk.
This, from the man who promised my husband a gap of just 2-4 months before he could bring his family over permanently. This, from the man who knew that Sajjad’s first and most important condition was that his family would accompany him abroad—take it or leave it.
This is too much.
“Please don’t talk to me of what happened 15 years ago. 15 years ago you didn’t have a laptop and a cell phone. I dare you to spend 15 days without them right now.” I text back, cuttingly enough, I hope.
He backs off, then. “We’re working on it. Just a little more time.”
I fling my phone onto the bed. I don’t want to hear any more platitudes from this hypocrite of a man.
When Sajjad calls me next I come straight to the point and tell him I spoke to the guy. I give him a word by word record of the entire conversation. “There’s no visa pending.” I almost growl. “It hasn’t been applied at all.”
Then: “But he told me it had been applied for…”
“Well, he lied to you,” I bark out.
Either that or he is lying to you now… the serpent raises its hood, venom dripping lustily, drop by drop. You can’t really tell, can you…
I hold my head in my hands. My jaw hardens. My gaze falls at the list lying on one corner of the bed—the list of things I was supposed to be taking on my two-month trip. I snatch it up and rend it to pieces… strip by strip… square by square. Gather up the pieces and chuck them in the dustbin.
Not for the first time, I wonder when this will end.