It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it? But “Bangalore Briefs” sounds a bit like a legal service or a clothing store that specializes in undies. And “Bangalore Bulletin” just sounds official in a way this will not be. Best not to overthink it.
The Story So Far
For those of you who have been following the continuing saga of my unreasonably long engagement, I’ll bring you up to speed. In December of 2019, I was living with my partner in an apartment across the street from Fort Tryon Park in northern Manhattan. Once a week I made thick, fluffy pancakes for us. She was working at a job she increasingly felt disillusioned by, and I was finishing my thesis (ditto on the disillusionment but those are both another story). Hanging over our heads was the fact that her visa expired at the end of the year.
No reason it should have expired, except that the Trump administration had a vindictive immigration policy. Visas like hers had been rubber stamped in the past. And now that Trump is out of office have begun to be rubber stamped again. She left the country in January 2020. The plan was for her to continue working for the same company in their London office, but in March she decided that she would work for them remotely and wait out the pandemic with her family in India. Bangalore, to be specific. I moved in with my mom for what I thought would be a short stay while I found another apartment. Perhaps I would move with Anuja to India. Perhaps she would come back to the United States.
October in London
It was not until October of 2021 that we saw each other again in person. 18 months. Anuja had a work visa allowing her to go to London, and I was allowed to travel there, too, just from the fact that I come from a wealthy and influential country. Seriously. No visa, no nothing. COVID-19 has hit the US among the hardest of any country in the world, and yet I had to take one COVID test after arriving and she had to take three.
Reading over what I’ve written, I can see I’ve been ,brisk in my narration. I’ve rehearsed versions of this story before, and now I am skipping over a lot of desperately tight embraces. A lot of heaving sobs where you get snot all over the shoulder of your partner’s shirt but are just too far gone to care. Also a lot of omelettes. A lot of walks past the house-boats on the Regency Canal.
So. We spent a month together. After I left, she stayed in London for some two more weeks before going home. And at the time we were unsure when we would see each other again. India opened its borders to new visas in late 2021. It is now March, 2022 and we are back together, in Bangalore. For a month. Always for a month.
Not since 2019 have we lived on the same continent. And yes those thirty days together in England were wonderful. But there were ripe apples and pears on the branches then. And since then the apples have been gathered in. The snows have come and gone. The snowdrops have bloomed and begun to wilt. And now the crocuses are blooming.
I can feel myself focusing on the positive; the beautiful; the natural. Those four months have also seen the surge in COVID cases caused by the Omicron Variant. Anti-queer and anti-woman legislation being written by conservative lobbyists and then picked up by legislative houses throughout the country. Oh, and the invasion of Ukraine by Russia. And the anniversaries of the deaths of people I have known who died of COVID.
Bangalore; No Longer Long-Distance
And now here I am in Bangalore, a place which knows neither fall nor winter. Everything is warm and fresh and green and sprinkled with a fine layer of red dust.
I got here two days ago. Still recovering from the jet-lag. And still meeting this person whom I’ve ostensibly known since 2016 and whom I’ve spoken to over the phone twice a day since the beginning of 2020. I know how she likes her eggs. How she likes her chai. We’ve talked about every topic under the sun. And yet. We are afraid.
In a way, it is easy to have a long-distance relationship. It is easy to talk twice a day and to say: I don’t want to bring that up. Let it be. We have enough to talk about as it is. You get in fewer arguments when you’re that far away. Not none. But fewer.
And each time I see her again, it feels like we are having all of our arguments at once. It doesn’t help that I feel trapped. That it’s difficult for me to navigate the streets without her. Difficult even to get in a taxi without a working knowledge of Hindi or Kannada. I’m used to “First avenue,” “Second Avenue,” and so on. I’m not used to having to remember that Bannerghatta Main Road is the next one over from Adugodi Main Road which turns into Hosur Main Road north of the Christian cemetery. I have dyslexia which makes it difficult for me to process all of these new names.
The Issues, in No Particular Order
We know we love each other. When she is having difficulties, I am the person she wants to talk to. And when I am having difficulties, she is the person I want to talk to. And yet finding a place in each other’s lives when we’re actually in the same city has been like trying to fit two gears together that have different sized teeth.
The thing is, we could have broken up at almost any time in the last two years and people would have said the same thing: “Yeah. That sucks. I get it. Long distance is tough. Goddamn pandemic.” But no. We’re still together. And I know that’s how the book ends. Don’t ask me how I know. But I do. I know this is the person I want to be with. It’s just getting through these frustrating middle chapters that I am not sure how to navigate.
Everyone loves a feel-good story about two people getting back together after a long time apart. Defying the odds. Bucking the trend. Proving that hope is alive. But I don’t owe that kind of Pollyanna nonsense to anyone. Yes the world is breaking apart. But that’s all the more reason to want to be with my one and only person. And as of now I don’t know what the way forward is.
Read Adam’s whole series of Bangalore Letters
Tell One Story (Bangalore Letter #2)
India is…Too Big for One Article (Bangalore Letter #3)
Indian Food: A Love Story (Bangalore Letter #4)
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