On Saturday, May 4th, Patrick and I accidentally embarked on a walking tour of the city. Eight hours after we had begun the journey downtown, we each found ourselves face down in our pillows, shoes on, lights on, eyes closed.
The New York Indian Film Festival was ending Saturday, and so Patrick and I bought tickets for the showing of Please Don't Beat Me Sir, a documentary chronicling the political theater movement of the Chhara community in Gujarat. The community is one of India's "de-notified tribes," groups originally given criminal designation under British colonial rule, and subsequently demarcated by Jawaharlal Nehru. Unfortunately, the communities were not rehabilitated, not provided an opportunity to assimilate to mainstream society, compelling them to continue thievery. Coupled with a vulnerability to police brutality and corruption, generations of Chharas were enslaved to a social destiny, and the movie chronicled the younger generation's efforts to free themselves of the sins of their fathers.
Most of the Chharas spoke in Gujarati, though a more colloquial dialect that I had a difficult time following. I understood all of the swearing and the crass language, however, and could relate to the concepts of the words much more than the subtitles could afford. While the rest of the audience would look on in sympathy, awe, I tried to suppress uncontrollable, inappropriate laughter, surprised that the 84 year old Chhara grandmother on the screen could have such a foul mouth.
As with all documentaries, I was a bit skeptical to the veracity and authenticity of the stories. It was a spectacle, bringing to light a community only through one lens. And so, while the director took questions and lectured on the notion of art as political advocacy, my mind kept wandering off to my visits to India, when my grandmother's maidservants would suddenly change their demeanor when they saw a camera in my sister's hands.
After the film and discussion, Patrick and I suddenly realized how hungry we were. We wanted to get a coffee and pastry from a cute, ovepriced cafe, and thought we'd walk till we found one. We walked for some time, and then decided to walk into Brooklyn.
The problem was, while we did see Brooklyn, could almost touch it from across the water, we couldn't figure out how to get there. We walked for hours, and the more we searched, the more elusive Brooklyn became.
We trekked through Battery Park City, the most disabling and discomforting part of Manhattan. Battery Parkis an artifice inspired by cities all over the country, but only the mundane parts within these cities. It is not Dupont Circle or Philly's art district, but rather is eerily similar to Center Street in Philly, as well as the corporate districts of Washington DC. Patrick and I walked around the perimeter of the constructed city in silence, as a sense of anxiety (and overwhelming hunger) prevailed upon us.
Every so often, Patrick would grunt in anger, and I would squeeze my stomach to stop it from growing.
Not once did we think to use our smart phones.
Just as we were about to keel over from starvation, exhaustion, and general dissatisfaction with this great city, we thought we saw signs leading us to the bridge. I pulled Patrick over to the first ATM I saw. "I need cash if we're going to Brooklyn. I don't know if they take credit cards." Patrick looked amused, but then must have agreed, as he drew cash, too.
It wasn't a mirage. We finally found the beginning of the Brooklyn Bridge Walkway. We initially thought we were the subjects of practical, cruel jokes, because the sign looked as though it had been made by a seven year old, not the municipality to which we pay taxes.
Patrick and I eagerly walked, almost ran, in the direction of the sign, its paint still drying, and walked the length of the bridge. We took obligatory pictures, to document our travels, and finally, after what seemed, or what actually was, hours of painful, arduous searching, we crossed the line that welcomed us into Brooklyn.
Patrick looked at me. "I have never wanted a burrito so badly in my life."
We walked down High Street and into DUMBO, and looked around desperately for food. I was about to comment on how pretty and tranquil the neighborhood was, but my stomach immediately shattered the silence, and I instead decided to finally use my smart phone to find places to eat.
We passed by a candy shop, and without so much as half a nod at each other, we walked in together, and separated as we ran around the store looking for our favorite candy. It was wholesale, and so I bought two gummy sharks & 2 yogurt pretzels, and Patrick's quantities of his favorites were similar. We just needed something to keep us standing till we found food.
We stumbled upon a loud, raucous Mexican bar aptly named "Pedro's," and we succumbed to its wafting fragrances of refried beans and tomatillo and sat down with audible groans. Within thirty minutes, we were duped into thinking we purchased nachos (it was only tortilla chips), I accidentally spilled an entire bottle of hot sauce and a glass of water on my enchiladas (still ate it anyways), and the waitress told us she didn't eat burritos (reverse psychology marketing ploy, we hoped). It was the best meal we had had in years.
The New York Indian Film Festival was ending Saturday, and so Patrick and I bought tickets for the showing of Please Don't Beat Me Sir, a documentary chronicling the political theater movement of the Chhara community in Gujarat. The community is one of India's "de-notified tribes," groups originally given criminal designation under British colonial rule, and subsequently demarcated by Jawaharlal Nehru. Unfortunately, the communities were not rehabilitated, not provided an opportunity to assimilate to mainstream society, compelling them to continue thievery. Coupled with a vulnerability to police brutality and corruption, generations of Chharas were enslaved to a social destiny, and the movie chronicled the younger generation's efforts to free themselves of the sins of their fathers.
Most of the Chharas spoke in Gujarati, though a more colloquial dialect that I had a difficult time following. I understood all of the swearing and the crass language, however, and could relate to the concepts of the words much more than the subtitles could afford. While the rest of the audience would look on in sympathy, awe, I tried to suppress uncontrollable, inappropriate laughter, surprised that the 84 year old Chhara grandmother on the screen could have such a foul mouth.
As with all documentaries, I was a bit skeptical to the veracity and authenticity of the stories. It was a spectacle, bringing to light a community only through one lens. And so, while the director took questions and lectured on the notion of art as political advocacy, my mind kept wandering off to my visits to India, when my grandmother's maidservants would suddenly change their demeanor when they saw a camera in my sister's hands.
After the film and discussion, Patrick and I suddenly realized how hungry we were. We wanted to get a coffee and pastry from a cute, ovepriced cafe, and thought we'd walk till we found one. We walked for some time, and then decided to walk into Brooklyn.
The problem was, while we did see Brooklyn, could almost touch it from across the water, we couldn't figure out how to get there. We walked for hours, and the more we searched, the more elusive Brooklyn became.
We trekked through Battery Park City, the most disabling and discomforting part of Manhattan. Battery Parkis an artifice inspired by cities all over the country, but only the mundane parts within these cities. It is not Dupont Circle or Philly's art district, but rather is eerily similar to Center Street in Philly, as well as the corporate districts of Washington DC. Patrick and I walked around the perimeter of the constructed city in silence, as a sense of anxiety (and overwhelming hunger) prevailed upon us.
 |
| so close to Brooklyn, and yet so far |
Every so often, Patrick would grunt in anger, and I would squeeze my stomach to stop it from growing.
Not once did we think to use our smart phones.
It wasn't a mirage. We finally found the beginning of the Brooklyn Bridge Walkway. We initially thought we were the subjects of practical, cruel jokes, because the sign looked as though it had been made by a seven year old, not the municipality to which we pay taxes.
 |
| finally, we find Brooklyn. |
Patrick looked at me. "I have never wanted a burrito so badly in my life."
We walked down High Street and into DUMBO, and looked around desperately for food. I was about to comment on how pretty and tranquil the neighborhood was, but my stomach immediately shattered the silence, and I instead decided to finally use my smart phone to find places to eat.
We passed by a candy shop, and without so much as half a nod at each other, we walked in together, and separated as we ran around the store looking for our favorite candy. It was wholesale, and so I bought two gummy sharks & 2 yogurt pretzels, and Patrick's quantities of his favorites were similar. We just needed something to keep us standing till we found food.
 |
| best decision of my life |
Finally satisfied, we left in search of more candy. The candy shop closed, and wouldn't open again till noon the next day. It was not even 8 pm. I held up both my fists and denounced God, while Patrick was close to tears. "I hate Brooklyn."
The subway ride back home was somber. We were barely holding ourselves up, and Patrick missed his stop just because he couldn't stand in time. We left the car together, and woefully climbed the stairs back up to Manhattan.
I touched Patrick's elbow softly to say bye, but instead shook my head and said, "Brooklyn. Never again."
He nodded. "Except I'm going back tomorrow."
End of Day 4.
End of Day 4.
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