It is different - not because of how the city has been built, not because of where it has been built, and also not because of where it has been built, and also not because of why it was built, but because of how it doing now. I've lived for an extensive expanse of my life in Mumbai, a metropolis of its own kind. Legend says that the more you know about Mumbai, the less you understand. That's the reason why strangers are welcomed with open arms in the city. If I had to, I would not be able to count the number of times I've been helped out by strangers, in various situations. As a matter of fact, those were friends at that particular moment. And in those moments, I've received wisdom from those strangers that helped me navigate the crowded local trains. My experience, my knowledge and life skills have benefited from the interactions with strangers of the city. But this is not about Mumbai, this is about NY, and it's different.
I was there for 72 hours, and except for the event that unfolded last 5 hours, the megapolis had been strictly whelming. I saw the square, saw the building, saw the park, saw my reflection in the glass panels of branded showrooms which I walked past wearing sunglasses to look expensive. I saw the rush and rust on faces, saw the steam rise from underground, saw the tourists soaked in euphoria of first world sights. But that was not what I wanted my memory to comprise of. And that is when magic happened, at the last night.
Unlike in Mumbai where the cabs are economical by design and frugal in comfort, cabs in NY are a treat of luxury, even at their base fare. They gallop on the streets, like well-bred race horses, with the life of the city as the jockey on their back. I can't decide whether it's a cab I booked, or a business class experience. I exited a dinner meeting with a relative and got into by luxury ride. As I got in, was greeted by the driver in the customary manner, a code language shared between drivers and riders. After a while, however, he asked a question about my name.
-"How do you say your name?"
I knew where the conversation was headed. I gave the answer in the accent which conveys the originality of the name.
-"Are you from India? Which part?"
For both the answers, I returned the favour with similar questions. The driver was from Chittagong, Bangladesh. After a few minutes of facts based questioning, the conversation proceeded to that space which immigrants only talk off in siloed and scant moments, with words and colloquial expressions that don't need to be watered down, with theatrics that defy the best of musicals, with the tone that doesn't have to confirm to a standard of speech filled with repetition. But only in few instances, and this was one of them. I came to know that he arrived in the United States in 1992, after having worked in the Middle East as a blue collar worker. He had left home even earlier. His journey could be the screenplay for another movie on immigrants in US, but that genre has been milked to maximum. Regardless of anything, his struggle of acquiring a living that could support his family back home, his ancestral memory, his wife and children in the States, and finally himself, was worth listening. I contributed with my small share of struggle in carving a space for myself in this alien land. As you read this, I should tell you that the essence of this conversation lies in the nativeness of the language we conversed, and that is where the beauty of the last night lies. We could understand what each of us meant, what each of us might have dealt with, without having to place a standardised word for each emotion. It was conveyed regardless of our command over diction. It was one thing to carve your life out in your own homeland, but that same effort amplifies in ways that one can't imagine at the outset when you set foot on an alien land. And that moment, when both of us hoped for peace for each other, remains the memory of NY, a city far from home.
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