blessings from my taxi driver

People tend to think of God at three moments in their lives: birth, death, and marriage. I've seen births, I've seen deaths, and I've been to weddings, and yet, still, the only time I think of God is when I ride in a New York City yellow cab.

A few weeks ago, I took a cab to Vin's place. I was in pain underneath the weight of all of my textbooks, all hardcover, all maroon, and all stamped in gold, in an almost imperious, abrasive, unsettling gold. I hailed a cab with my left foot, and one screeched to a halt. I threw my books inside, dove in headfirst (unnecessarily), and yelped, "61st and York." As he was about to leave, I yelled out. "Wait! I think I left something in the vestibule." He hesitated, and then laughed, "I don't mind, I get good tip." I ran back to my apartment, found nothing, and ran back outside.

I sat back inside, letting the ripped, cheap leather and the soft, incomprehensible murmur of someone on his cellphone envelop and immobilize me. I stared outside, watching the city lights blur past me. I thought of my insurmountable amount of homework. I thought of my lost writing dreams and I thought of my friends, and how much I would miss them next year. I thought of how soon my entire life would change. I thought of wedding planning, of the great offense Indian guests take when, well, anything happens, and of the beauty that is in a large family coming together and celebrating you. I thought of my parents' expectations of me, I thought of my parents'  incredible spirit and energy. I thought of how, no matter how liberal or progressive people characterize themselves on Facebook, that at certain points in a woman's life - birth, death, marriage - society bears down upon her with a scrutinizing eye. I thought of Vin, I thought of our busy lives, and I thought of how I had not seen him alone, in silence, for weeks, maybe even a month.

And then I started silently crying in the backseat. 

The driver was off the phone. "So, where you from?"

I knew he wasn't talking about New Jersey. "India," I replied. "I am Gujarati." He asked me if I could speak Hindi, and I told him I understood it perfectly, so he could speak to me in Hindi if he didn't mind that I responded in a very English heavy version of Hinglish.

He was thrilled. He asked what I was studying, if I was married, where my parents were. A sudden anxiety washed over me. "I'm engaged, and I am in law school."

He started, and became very serious. "Beta, that's so wonderful. Please keep studying. Focus on school and grow. Nothing else is important. I hope you are not distracted by all small-small things. We need people like you in the law, beta. You can help us one day. I hope that the next time I see you, it will be on the Supreme Court. Beta, you will be a great lawyer, in the Supreme Court."

I smiled. "Thank you so much." He shook his head. It was nothing, he was just telling me the truth, and he wanted to know I had his blessings and he would pray for me. I wanted to reach out, through the dirty, plastic barrier that divided us, and put my hand on his shoulder, but the cab abruptly stopped in front of Vin's place, and I was jerked back into reality - a reality where it is not OK to touch an uncle's shoulder. I walked to Vin's apartment with my head held high, acknowledging all the sacrifices everyone had made for me to get to where I am. Before Vin opened the door, I closed my eyes, and for one very long, very heavy moment, I prayed to God that he give that cab driver all the happiness in the world. 

Today, I was walking from far uptown to go to school. It was a complicated walk - the Pope is in town and streets are arbitrarily closed off (in the name of ceremony, perhaps). After the second time I was redirected down the street, my shoe broke in the middle of the crosswalk. I certainly couldn't walk to school, and so hailed another cab. An older man with kind eyes and a turban pulled over. I got in and told him the law school's address. "Wait, Washington Square Park and Macdougal is the school, right beta?" I nodded. I told him I would have normally walked, and I stuck my foot out and showed him my broken shoe. He looked at me intently in the rearview mirror.

"Beta, you would have walked from here all the way down?" I assumed he was about to lecture me on how I am too frail. "That makes me so happy, beta. That is one and one half hours! Walking at your age is so good for you. People here, they don't walk, they take taxis." When I told him I was Gujarati, he exclaimed, "Oh! That's why you walk so much, beta. Very good, very good."

I got excited. "Yea! And it's good for the environment. And those subway prices are so expensive, too, right, uncle?"

He agreed. And then he asked me how old I was, expressed surprise that I was 26 (he said I looked like his 18 year old niece from Buffalo), and asked me about my parents. He asked if I spoke Hindi, and I told him what I told the other taxi driver. He told me he had been in America since 1988, the year I was born. 

I told him palak paneer was my favorite food, and that I wished I was from Amritsar, where he was from, so I could eat palak paneer for breakfast instead of dhoklas (which I don't eat for breakfast anyways). I asked him if he frequented the Punjabi deli on Second Avenue, and he told me he preferred the one on Houston and Avenue A and the one on Ninth Avenue and 21st Street. He said they had more vegetarian options, since the one I'd mentioned was Pakistani. 

As I left the cab, he told me I had his blessings. He said, "By grace of God, maybe I will pick you up in a taxi again someday, beta. So nice to meet you." I smiled. "I will see you at the Punjabi deli, uncle." He shook his head, in that ambiguous way that all Indians shake their heads - not saying no because they still have hope, but not saying yes because they recognize reality. I shut the door, and he quickly rolled down the window and said, "Beta, say hi to your parents for me."

"I will, uncle," I said, and I limped off with my one shoe, praying for him and his family, and thanking God that I met such goodness this morning.

One Story

I have always liked the idea of one. One favorite flavor of ice cream. One language spoken at home. One homeland.

It's a nice idea, but unattainable.

Tonight, the Islamic Center at NYU sponsored Aasif Mandvi, the tragically humorous, unheroic hero of voiceless, confused, hybridized browns. He read two stories from his new book, No Land's Man. The first story was about the way in which he tried to fit in at his high school in Florida, as a new transplant from England, where he had moved from his Bohra community in Mumbai. I almost thought he was reading back to me my life story; it was a story about youth and discovery and sky blue Volkswagens, not a particularized story about a larger, mythicized "Muslim American identity." The second story was about the trajectory of his inspiring and impactful career.

He then engaged the students - who came from all over NYU - in a thoughtful Q & A. People asked funny questions about light moments in the stories and for advice as Muslim artists and writers. People posed profound questions about race and religion and multiculturalism. He was asked about his perspective on the Broadway play "Disgraced," in which he played the role of Amir. In response to a student expressing her dismay and discomfort about the play's conclusion, which she said extended stereotypes to modernized/westernized/Muslims, he said that the playwright, Ayad Akhtar, was not trying to speak for all Muslims. Rather, he was just telling his story - what he was feeling, how he saw the world, how he saw Amir. It was not a political message, not a sermon. It was not his duty as a Muslim or Muslim American or American to spread awareness about his "cause" or "group." It was just one story. It was his story.

No matter how hard I try to fit my story into a neat package - a package of Indian American or American Indian or New York City or Law Student or Ridgewood or Woman - I can never get it to really stick. I do not adequately represent any one thing or any one person. Mandvi advised a student about this constant tension, that nauseating, irritating, gnawing sensation we have lived with in seeking to define ourselves. He said, "Your multiplicity is your source of power."

I will never have just one. I like Bailey's ice cream and mint chocolate chip ice cream. My mother blesses me in Gujarati and my father praises me in English. The boundaries of my homeland begin in Ahmedabad and end in New York City. Amid the versatility and the colors and the languages and the insecurities and the tragedies and the bounty, there is not one of anything - except, perhaps, one story. My story.

don't even blink.

I know someone who died yesterday. He was the husband of a friend and mentor of mine. Last year, she would tell me about their vacation together; and now, he's gone.

It's palpable. We're cursed by a sense of invincibility, forgetting how easy it is to fall prey to the vicissitudes and misfortunes that asphyxiate us. I am one of those people, wasting a wealth of moments in triteness and petty miseries.

I was sitting on a stained, dark green futon in Flushing, Queens when I found out. Vin and I were watching House of Cards and eating naan and Valentine's day cookies. My hair was (still is) greasy, I was (still am) wearing my glasses and male athletic shorts, and I was licking spilled palak paneer off my left thigh (that's a truth). The world had slowed, and it was just the two of us, comfortably smelly and content, needing nothing and no one else.

And then I happened to glance at my email.

I felt a nauseating, tangible loss, a vacuity I could not fill with a few tears or phone calls to my mother. Dead is final. There's no way to backspace, erase, stop recording. It's the finality of the decision that shocks the core, and it is this troubling irreversibleness, one over which we have no control, that compels people to look for hope in God or heaven or whatever illusion can offer comfort in the face of such a stubborn conclusion.

It is moments like the one on that forest green futon that I would miss the most. Unassuming, unplanned, unpretentious moments that I forget to acknowledge, forget to cherish. It is a moment like this that my friend will never again have with her companion.

In a few weeks, when the sadness and shock subside, and I may resume my concerns about quotidian angers and insecurities. Today, however, I am still. I am quiet, and I am absolutely still.

After some tears, I washed my face, sat on the couch, and gave Vin a hug. I love spending time in Flushing. I just don't do it enough.

May 7, and I've discovered the single best bathroom in all of Manhattan, and possibly the universe

Bathrooms are heavily underrated. Societies measure progress by a number of dynamic factors, like infant mortality, enfranchisement, literacy rate. However, economists and social anthropologists tend to neglect one vital aspect of development: bathrooms.

Bearing this in mind in computing economic growth, I discovered that Manhattan far exceeds its peers, and has excelled in providing for its citizens bathrooms of stellar quality.

And this is due in large part to Beauty and Essex, a testament to old Manhattan, the glamour and the glory.

Last night, an old friend and I met up to both catch up on each other's lives and bid farewell to one another. Beauty and Essex was on my bucket list, so we decided to consume each other's stories and cocktails there. I was a bit surprised when I first arrived at the restaurant. It was dingy from the outside, looked as though it would implode, and, worst, was surrounded by a block of mundane, grey emptiness. We walked into what seemed to be an overpriced, cash-only jewelry store, and though I was initially tempted to buy red sequined baby shoes, I walked towards someone who seemed to work there (either as a waitress or earring designer), and hesitantly told her I had reservations. She smiled, and motioned for us to walk through a door I had not seen earlier. We walked into a spacious, grand, softly lit room, adorned with intentionally gaudy chandeliers and old frames and dusty mirrors. It was, literally, bejeweled, and yet the excessive tackiness took on a class and finesse that was intriguing, inviting, not at all suffocating.

My friend and I sat down in between two couples, and behind a group of about ten girls. The intimacy of the restaurant caused in us a surge of estrogen that had forever been dormant, and after my friend's second "Barbie drink," as she dubbed it, we were both suddenly, uncontrollably ranting about birth control and career women and long term relationships and whether or not it was appropriate to have only sandwiches at our weddings (neither of us is getting married any time soon). "I don't know why we are yelling about Plan B," I hysterically sobbed to my friend, who, shook her head with equally strong emotion and said, "I think it's because this place is for girls."

As soon as we ordered, (rather, after we were conned into ordering more food than we planned), we were given quarter sized, complimentary snacks from the kitchen. A circular, small papadum type of spicy, crispy wheat, topped with pureed beet, which was then topped with a dollop of burrata and a mint leaf. I had not been hungry until that point, when I popped about .25 cm of gustatory foreplay into my mouth.

small, tantalizing, delicious

Suddenly, I was famished.

fruity

We ordered cocktails to maximize our dining experience. My first cocktail was a mojito made with, among several other surprisingly obscure but fresh ingredients, Dominican rum and a French raspberry soda. My friend ordered something that she aptly characterized as a garden (it's actually called the "emerald gimlet"), as it tasted like all of the earth's finest in my mouth. We were so impressed by the art and adoration with which alcoholic creations were fantasized, that we ordered two more. The blackberries in my next drink were smoked on the premises, and so smoked fruit thickened and enslaved my tequila. My friend's second drink was the aforementioned "Barbie drink," which tasted like a terrifying combination of middle school and Limited 2 and lip gloss.

Our food was staggered, so we were able to enjoy the flavors--both eclectic and traditional, much like the city--of each dish without the unfortunate mixing and forgetting and neglecting of the artistry of each dish. At the risk of sounding like a trite food reviewer, I'll say that the "classic" pan con tomate, which we had with creamy burrata with which I played with my tongue, made it seem as though bread, tomatoes, and cheese were the only three ingredients one would ever need for any meal, for any moment, ever and forever. The empanadas we ordered tasted eerily like samosas, and, coupled with the papadum type freebie earlier, I was not sure if "India" was actually another theme of the restaurant. The pieces of eggplant on my "pizzetta" (which is a sexy way of saying large personal pie), were baked till crispy  and encrusted with Parmesan and bread and all things delectable.

After consuming great quantities of Barbie drinks and Barbie foods, I naturally had to pee. I was waiting on a long line for the single bathroom at the end of the restaurant, when a waitress came up to me and said there was another bathroom by the entrance. I nodded insincerely, because my bladder was too full to walk, and she shrugged and said, "I mean, there's free champagne."

rosé, candles, toilets

I blanched, and then immediately texted my friend the news, who replied in capital letters and exclamations and sheer wonder. After we paid the bill, we walked down to the exalted bathroom, and walked into the a room that may have been larger than most NYC apartments, and that smelled of lavender and love and lilacs. It was warmly lit, with couches and coffee tables in a carpeted area of the room. Across from the seating, there was a champagne bar. A lovely, tall, Swedish looking woman was popping bottles of sparkling rosé, and, thinking that we could have been delusional, perhaps because of the aforementioned artistic cocktails, we reluctantly hovered around the bar. "Um, can we have a drink?" She eagerly obliged, and filled two delicate flutes of sparkly, bubbly, pink, complimentary, bathroom drink. We sat by the lounge area, still in the bathroom, and sipped and appreciated and savored, and when I had to pee again, I was grateful all over again for the convenient location and luxury of Beauty and Essex and of America and of Manhattan. We decided to have seconds, and took our drinks to the lobby, after passing the men's bathroom, which, in gorgeously heteronormative fashion, smelled like beer.

bars and bathrooms

Still shocked that our dreams really had come true, that there actually was a land of milk and honey,  where happiness and champagne and bladder relief saw no bounds, we parted ways in silence.

Manhattan may not be the greatest city in the world, it may not be the center of the universe, but it can, like few others, boast of wonderfully luxurious bathrooms. New Yorkers really like to pee.

End of Day 7.

May 4, that time the entire borough of Brooklyn goes missing

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.

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.

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.

finally, we find Brooklyn.

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.

best decision of my life

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.

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.

May 2, and it's already a painful good-bye

I'm four years old. Or I'm a man. Or I am missing a social interaction chip. Whatever it is, I have great difficulty articulating my emotions. My feelings of fear and anxiety and anger simmer dangerously till the moment of release--the point at which I get a tingling in my nose, my face flushes, and a single tear rolls down my cheek.

I was a monster yesterday. The positive, carpe diem -esque spin on my imminent departure was temporarily subsumed by sadness, premature nostalgia, and fear--an incredibly juvenile, anticipatory fear of leaving everyone I love. 

I only bare the raw, vulnerable, unattractive part of my soul to those who endure and accept me.So, last night, instead of enjoying what little time I have with one of my favorites, I spent the evening brooding, constantly on the verge of tears, angry at him and the world. 

And then I got angry at myself for wasting one day worrying about my limited days. It's an endless, self-destructive cycle, all created in my own head. I really need a new hobby.

I promised myself (and my mother), I would chronicle my adventures daily, and write an entry in this blog everyday till I left the city. This one is solely a confession, an admission of my anguish. I write better than I speak, and so, I'm writing my heart out (literally; sorry, I don't know what's going on with the clichéd idioms and metaphors today).

I already miss so much this city, a place in which zephyrs smell of pizza at 9 AM, inhabitants walk together but in isolation, and sounds drown out the pain of your own murky thoughts. I already miss so much you, and you, and you, and definitely you. 

End of Day 2