We're everywhere. We're in Guyana, Britain, and Edison, NJ. Stereotypically, we inhabit Dunkin Donuts and the front seat of cabs and medical schools and the receiving end of 800 numbers, but realistically we inhabit artistic enclaves and spiritual nooks and political crannies shaping the face of the entire world.
That said, the Indian dude who works at the Secaucus train station snack bar needs to stop singing Bollywood songs when I'm hungry.
Occasionally, I will stop by the little newsstand in the station for an overpriced snack. I try to balance health and frugality, and so frequently end up eating my gum. An Indian man in his fifties, usually wearing a faded suit-vest from which his belly protrudes, works at the register. He sings Bollywood songs and loudly yells to people who are buying snacks he does not like. "Hey! What is that? Dinner? Hungry hungry hippo!"
Most people are in a rush to make the train, and so being called a hippo is ignored.
Some people, like me, are part of his special club (no, I get no discounts), and so he also speaks to me in a colloquial Hindi I would only understand were I raised on the streets of New Delhi. As I grew up on the streets of Ridgewood, I usually nod and politely smile, and hope that my gum satisfies the pain of void in my stomach.
Last week, I was in a particular rush to get home since I was sick. My eyes were droopy, my face was wan, and I could barely stand.
"Hey! Hey you! Going home? Need your dinner? Food? Khaana?"
I stared blankly at him as I paid for my gum. "Yep, finally going home."
He smiled. "One day I will go home, too."
That said, the Indian dude who works at the Secaucus train station snack bar needs to stop singing Bollywood songs when I'm hungry.
Occasionally, I will stop by the little newsstand in the station for an overpriced snack. I try to balance health and frugality, and so frequently end up eating my gum. An Indian man in his fifties, usually wearing a faded suit-vest from which his belly protrudes, works at the register. He sings Bollywood songs and loudly yells to people who are buying snacks he does not like. "Hey! What is that? Dinner? Hungry hungry hippo!"
Most people are in a rush to make the train, and so being called a hippo is ignored.
Some people, like me, are part of his special club (no, I get no discounts), and so he also speaks to me in a colloquial Hindi I would only understand were I raised on the streets of New Delhi. As I grew up on the streets of Ridgewood, I usually nod and politely smile, and hope that my gum satisfies the pain of void in my stomach.
Last week, I was in a particular rush to get home since I was sick. My eyes were droopy, my face was wan, and I could barely stand.
"Hey! Hey you! Going home? Need your dinner? Food? Khaana?"
I stared blankly at him as I paid for my gum. "Yep, finally going home."
He smiled. "One day I will go home, too."
