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.

My Mother's Daughter

When my mother was 25, she had already had her first daughter--a shrill-voiced, underweight one-year old, who was desperately attached to her. Together, they explored a new city, Delhi, traversing the paved and not-so paved roads in search for nothing else but ice cream, because in each other they had found the whole world.

24 years and several cities (and countries) later, I find myself in the same position. My voice is embarrassingly high-pitched, and my partner even finds my bony shoulders too fragile (read: "creepy") to touch. And, still, when I'm with my mother, I have everything.

As a transplant from another country,  I have struggled much of my childhood to find solace. I felt compelled to construct an identity that was digestible--a Hindu, an Indian, an American, an Atheist, a hipster, a conservative, and, my least favorite, the exotic girl (both in "Indian" and "American" circles). I was none of the above. Rather, I was in a state of constant recalibration, determined to figure out how to present myself, not only to the world, but to me. The only place in which I found a sense of home was in my mother. Her stories, her wisdom, her raw and authentic and brilliant sense of humor transcended the stark lines in which I was trying to color myself. My identity was simple, clear: I was my mother's daughter.

As I grew older, however, I thought to craft my identity against that of my mother. Unguided, lost, I began to reject much of which she taught me. I rejected the sciences, convinced myself I was bad at math, had boyfriends, had my heart broken. I wanted to be a world famous journalist. I told her I did not believe in marriage, that my husband would be a renowned chef so I didn't have to spend my time cooking (yes, ironically, those two ideas in the same breath--I might also add I rejected her sense of logic). I wanted to model, to act, to dance. I did not want to have children at 24 (and that ship has sailed now anyways).

And, the worst part of it was, she fully supported me in everything I did. As long as I was happy, she would say, she supported me 100%. My need to create my own self, in the interstices of what she had instilled in me, could only ever be superficial--there was nothing I did that was not inevitably a byproduct of my mother. My dreams, my restless need for adventure, my rejection of convention (if worth rejecting)--though she might not even realize it-- comes from her.

Through the years, I have also found her to be absolutely correct about, well, everything. She grounded my restlessness, stilled my racing mind. I sometimes find myself still seeking her approval, even when she is not around. I find myself excited to make Vin dinner, eager to decorate my new home, motivated not to just do well in law school, but to make it the best three years of my life. The older I get, I feel myself growing--not up, but into, into a woman who found joy in her family, in her home, and who did her work not out of obligation, but out of love for everything she ever did.

I can only hope to grow into the woman who not only gave me life, but taught me how to live it.

I am my mother's daughter, and nothing else.

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 10, and I accidentally walked into a rave

sitting, waiting, watching

Friday, the day after I crossed off on my bucket list "raging on a Thursday night in Manhattan," I was barely functioning. I was giddy from the night before, my soul was well-fed, but I was fatigued, my bones were hardly supporting the full weight of my idle, sandwich-ridden body.

But, against my own will, I was to go out that night. Two months ago, one of my friends sent me a link to some event called "Dark Disco." I was too busy at work to read the description, but saw the words "dim sum," "basement party," and "drink" and I immediately bought a ticket. This Friday, my frustratingly competent Outlook calendar reminded me I had to attend. I napped for an hour after work, accidentally sprayed perfume into my mouth, and headed downtown to meet my friend at the Williamsburg Bridge.

We walked to Rivington Street, in desperate need of some sort of aid to handle the situation into which we had accidentally gotten ourselves. We settled on Inoteca, which was quiet enough to ease us back into yet another sleepless night.

whiners & wine

After ranting about Cleveland, boys, diets, the New York Times over a bottle of wine whose name we could not pronounce, we walked south to 88 Palace, which was hosting our alleged dim sum rave. Before we reached the venue, we were caught in torrential rains, and so by the time we arrived, we were soaked, muddied, and whatever assistance the wine had provided in transporting us to our destination had worn off.

Hundreds of people in all types of attire (the dress code was ambiguous), were huddled together outside, some smoking, some splashing in puddles. We walked through what seemed to be a Chinese airport or mall--cold, clinical, and everything written in incomprehensible calligraphy. I turned to face my friend, and she seemed just as bewildered. We were then ushered upstairs (apparently, in Chinatown the basements are on the top floor), where hundreds of people had been herded into a significantly smaller space to pick up their tickets. We received neon fingerprints on our wrists and were then shuffled into a much larger room, which was infused with violet, magenta, black lights, the strong aroma of marijuana, and heavy, constant beats from the performers.

"I think this is a rave," I told my friend, and then we immediately walked to the bar.

We danced for hours, the feelings of fatigue and banality were quickly subsumed by exhilaration and freedom. We met the tallest man in the world, who approached us asking the location of the alleged dim sum, and then met one of Dark Disco's weekly performers, who told us that we should go to this every week, that basement/top floor raves in Chinatown were apparently commonplace.

In a couple of hours, two cops walked in. They shined flashlights across the room that only enhanced the sinister lighting effects, and their foreboding, rigid presence only amplified the sense of liberation of the souls floating in the room. The music stopped, and several people started leaving, but there had been no announcement, no restoration of normal lighting, and the room continued to reek of drugs. We asked around if the party had been shut down, but no one knew, and we had just ordered drinks, so I refused to leave till I drank my money's worth. After about thirty minutes, the music started again, and everyone who stayed benefited from a less crowded dance floor.

We stopped dancing only when we got hungry (again), and so we bid farewell to our newest friends, and walked through a damp, dark Chinatown. We stopped at 169 Bar, which appeared in front of us like an oasis. It was a funky, colorful, vibrant room in the middle of a seeming dormant block of mundane oblivion. We walked in, sat at the bar, and ordered macaroni and cheese and veggie dumplings. The bartender soon brought us macaroni and cheese covered in oil, tasteless cheese, and whole, raw vegetables. The dumplings were delicious, but for whatever reason the bartender only gave us ten seconds with the soy sauce, and then took the bottle away.

We chatted about the same topics as those that had surfaced over the expensive wine several hours earlier, though this time, we dug deeper into the issues, into our souls, and paused every two seconds only to wipe veggie dumpling filling from our faces.

Sounds of early morning birds greeted us when we walked out of the bar. The temporary stillness of the city, found only in the limbo between the end of a New Yorker's night and the start of a New Yorker's morning, not when the city is sleeping, but, rather, when the city is pausing to breathe, was shattered only by the inconceivable numbers of rats scurrying across the street. My friend and I stopped at the entrance to the Williamsburg Bridge, where she veered east, and I turned west, and we both headed home.

End of Day 10.

May 9, and I discover the greatest music on the island

New York City transforms time. Sunrises mark the end, while dusk sets off commencement. Summers are languid, coffee breaks are infinite, happy hours last through the night. And everyone goes out on Thursday nights.

In the last six years of my being part of this beautiful world, I was not one for raging on the weekdays. In fact, until this week, I never used the word "raging." I had a routine--flexible, yes, but still a routine. I was healthy, I was alive, I was scheduled. But, on Fridays, on Saturdays, I would let loose, I would imbibe, I would play, I would explode.

With my imminent departure, I knew it was necessary to introduce new words into my vocabulary, and so on Monday, I endeavored to plan a serious, legitimate "ragefest" on Thursday. All I wanted to do was dance (and I needed an excuse to wear a spontaneous dress purchase that I already regretted). Manhattan, while I consider it one of the greatest loves of my life (followed closely by 24 and my mother's spinach), is evasive, pretentious, expensive. My one wish to go dancing caused a flurry of emails, texts, calls from friends about promoters, about friends of friends, about "people" to know. Every hour for three days, there was a new plan, a new venue, a new friend's cousin who owned a bar. And until the hour before I met up with everyone on Thursday, we still had no idea where we were going.

After discussing Lavo, Greenhouse, Grace Hotel, Marquee, Finale, Santos Party House, EVR, and Ten June, my friend and I met up with her people (the ones who knew people), at the Box, a surreal, almost magical place housing circus performers, beautiful, agile women hanging from ceilings, and orgies on stage. Despite the conspicuous motif of sex, it was less vulgar, less mediocre, less trite than other Manhattan nightclubs. I was mesmerized by the ballerina in the air, and did not notice that there were drinks awaiting my friend and me at the bar. I blinked, poked myself, and began my Thursday night.

A group of about seven people, mostly male, were to meet us there. Though the Box seemed to be more authentic than other venues, it was still essentially a New York City club, and so I feared that the six males in the group might be turned down, my credibility would be lost, I would have to stop watching the orgy on stage and start Yelping.

And I was right. My friends could not get in, my credibility was lost, and we all trudged over to Fat Baby.

The most frustrating and rewarding aspect of New York City is that a good night is necessarily serendipitous.  The more we seek, the more we plan, the more we are disappointed; and yet, in our quests and explorations, we unearth the city's gems, those places for which New Yorkers are enchanted by their city, by their home.

Fat Baby was a little empty, but the music was loud and the drinks were strong, and there were enough of us to populate the dance space. My friend, one of the few who truly understands the pain of my departure, and my subsequent need for a bucket list, wanted for me to continue exploring that night. And, so, though it was already 2:30 in the morning, six hours before I had to be at work, we continued the party at Arlene's Grocery, the bodega-turned-into-music-hall. Everyone but the aforementioned friend decided to go to Mamoun's, effectively ending their nights, ending the raging.

And then there were two. My friend and I walked into Arlene's, and it seemed like a large, dingy living room, two men drinking beers in the far back corner. I looked quizzically at my comrade, and he grabbed my hand, and led me to the stairs. "Live music. It's downstairs. That's why I wanted to take you. I promise, it's incredible."

We walked down a narrow, graffiti splattered flight of stairs, and pushed through an inconspicuous, blue-grey door. And I was bewitched.

He was right. The music was powerful, it surged through cracked walls and the clamoring pipes and the stained counters and enslaved us with a spellbinding, mystical engagement. It was jazz and rap and blues all at the same time, genres converging, flavors emerging. After an hour, we thought we should leave, thought we should acknowledge our Friday obligations, but every time the band started playing a new set, we smiled knowingly at each other, closed our eyes again, and raised our hands to celebrate the beat.

Finally, after I used a bathroom with no toilet paper (and yet another serendipitous discovery), we decided to conduct closing ceremonies, and bought $50 worth of wraps from Wolfnights, before heading home.

I woke up three hours later, wearing the same eyeliner and same idiotic, giddy smile. The week of discussing logistics and promoters and short skirts was rendered obsolete by an accidentally glorious night of sleepless, spontaneous delirium, with the best music and the best sandwiches and the best people.

And that is how you use the word "raging" in context.

End of Day 9.

May 8, silence after the storm

Today, I looked out at the view from our balcony for five minutes, then came back inside, wore a sweatshirt, and quietly thanked everyone I knew--my friends, my family, my foes--for bringing me to this point in my life.

I'm going to sleep tonight, and dream dreams of my fortunate reality.

End of Day 8

May 6, and I meet Uncle Salman, one of the most eloquent men in history

I was horrifically ill Monday morning. My oozing, swollen, reddened eyes were open all night, in constant search for Kleenex or toilet paper or even the Economist order form paper, so I could blow my nose and maybe breathe a little. The breathing thing never happened. And I continued to look like a monster.

Still, I was compelled to venture out in the city like a floating plague. One month ago, I bought tickets through the Asian American Writers Workshop for a reading and discussion with Salman Rushdie, and so I was obliged to depart from the comfort and darkness of my sweat-drenched down comforter.

The first hour was a reception, where folks tensely mingled with each other, feigning interest in the artistic endeavors of their fellow writers while actually anxiously anticipating the arrival of Sir Rushdie. My eagerness to see him (coupled with my allergy medication) induced hallucinations, and at one point I yelped to my plus one and pointed to an older, balding, brown-tinted man at the door. "That's him! That's him! Stay cool. We're in Tribeca."

My guest gazed in the direction I was pointing, and looked back at me blankly. "That's not him. In fact, not even close. Stay cool." 

I had been too preoccupied with my red wine order to realize when the guest of honor did finally walk in. When I noticed him, I actually looked back three times, to make sure it was Salman in the flesh. I expected from one of the greatest, most transformative and powerful men in the world an ebb of light, or constant stream of harp music, or even a bit of knowing swagger. Rather, with a sense of ease and humility, almost to comparable to an anonymous passerby on the street, Sir Rushdie was leaning, almost slouching, against the wall, obliging guests with photographs and pausing every few minutes to drink his whiskey.

After staring for several minutes, we decided to walk up to him. In true Indian fashion, several people cut ahead of us, as though there was an imminent shortage of Rushdie (but, really, there is), and we waited for significantly longer than anticipated. When he finally looked in my direction, I smiled, wrung my wrists in nervousness, and told him, "Sir, you must hear this from everyone, but it's really, truly an  honor to meet you. You're the reason I wanted to become a writer." And then I continued to tell him I had one of his books with me at work, and he chuckled and said, "You didn't bring it? I could have signed it?"

To one of the greatest communicators of all time, I responded: "No, sir. I screwed up."

He waved away my filter-less mouth, and then I asked if he would mind standing with us for a photograph. We positioned ourselves so that he was in the middle of the two of us, but he decided it would be better if I were in the middle. So, really, I obliged them with a picture.

You're welcome, Uncle Salman.

I was pleasantly surprised to learn that other prolific writers were also present. (Apparently, this was prior knowledge, but I stopped reading after I read "Salman" and immediately purchased two tickets.) Readings by from Zadie Smith, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Téa Obreh illuminated the love and respect for Sir Rushdie, who listened to the power of his own words as if for the first time. He was then called on stage to engage with Amitava Kumar, a journalist and professor at Vassar College. He spoke about his first encounter with Garcia Marquez, the influences on his writing, the literary theories in which he does not ground his work, which, he acknowledged, came only from his heart. He said that the way to write well, to "make a book," is to write about something in life you deeply love or hate--two emotions I've always considered to be eerily similar, exerting the same amount of passion and energy, both just as deleterious to your sanity and soul. 

Salman Rushdie, accepting his "bribe," as he cleverly noted his award

He then commented on the difficulty of writers from the Third World to shatter the expectations to only write of the third world. This dilemma of writers who are compelled to represent the developing block, even if they are, like Sir Rushdie, well educated, well bred, and not characteristic of the perception of the less industrialized nations, is the dilemma of all children of immigrants, who are only accepted as spectacles, only assimilated if they are exoticized. Our process of deracination goes deeper than migration to the U.S. (or the U.K., etc). It's an endless, exhausting, emotionally overwhelming process of having no home, and being expected to feel as though our home countries, our mythical pasts, our parents who speak another language, our grandparents who must boil water for us to be able to stomach it, that that is all home. 

I left the event with a heavy sadness, almost a nostalgia for a man I never really knew. He spoke not just from his heart, but from mine. I wanted to share my feelings, my sense of intimacy, but did not know how. 

We walked to Galli for stellar pasta and unparalleled "mozz chips", and then got drinks at the Antique Garage, a small drinks joint with live music and antique mirrors and frames adorning the walls, because I thought that my emptiness could have been hunger, or sobriety, or ennui. We spent the entire night in transit, as I was silent, dissatisfied, trying to find something to provide comfort to the unsettling sensation in my gut, the feeling of untold and lost stories.

Cinco de Mayo

I woke up on Sunday with my eyes swollen shut, and yet still allowing liquid to ooze through and roll down  my dried, itching cheeks. I pried upon my eyes to look at my phone, play a game of scramble, and answer the barrage of texts confirming Cinco brunch plans. I accidentally overdosed on allergy medicine, took two scorching gulps of coffee, and ran out the door. A piece of my hair stuck to the dried ooze on my left cheek, and, winning the title of the world's most attractive person, I was ready to take on the day, one Bellini and Mexican-inspired falsehood at a time.

Of course, as with all New York City plans, ours viciously fell through. We put our names down at every brunch place within a twelve mile radius of our initial meeting place, to the point where the only place we could avoid an arbitrarily hiked prix fixe or a two hour wait was an American Italian cafe on Staten Island. We finally discovered an uncharacteristically empty bottomless brunch joint, Bell Book and Candle, whose hostess was completely unaware of the brunch deal fine print and unintentionally roped us into paying $15 more than we'd anticipated. Exhausted and in need of something with which to celebrate this arbitrary day in May, we accepted.

It was glorious. Several different groups of friends joined, and I was bestowed the beautiful gift of seeing everyone I loved in one panoramic swoop. We toasted to nothing, cheered to everything, and enjoyed surprisingly stellar breakfast burritos. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the rest of the west village, imbibing in a made up culture and congratulating ourselves on our open mindedness and internationalism.

cheers, loves

The day ended with my stealing a Mexican sombrero and assertively ensuring the presence of nachos at our last adventure. I woke up the next morning, eyes swollen shut but oozing, wheezing, cursing at mother nature for her need of pollen, and yet blissfully content.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, and Cinco de every month. 

End of Day 5.

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 3, unintentional discoveries

The best nights in New York City are those that begin as epic failures. The past week, I've been neurotically rounding up my friends to ensure we went dancing Friday night. I wanted to cross off Lavo from my bucket list, and, more importantly, create an opportunity to wear a new dress I impetuously ordered online in between meetings at work.

Ultimately, due to a permutations & combinations of logistical issues (i.e., no one wanted to spend money on Lavo tickets), we settled on Riff Raff's, a place of which I'd not known, but that was on my friend's bucket list. She told me the dress code was "hipster hott." Since my preferred attire is a grey t-shirt and jean shorts, I desperately scoured Google images and ultimately concluded that I could not wear that new dress, but I could wear a cotton wife beater endorsing a Thai beer. (I actually have one.)

Some obligations after work prevented me from eating dinner, and so I clumsily ate Greek yogurt as I put on my stockings and red lipstick and ran around with one contact lens in. All of us were meeting up at different times and places, and so while I wiped honey off my chin, I was also texting my friends to coordinate our eventual encounters. Finally, we all found each other on the line at Riff Raff's.

fruit platter, with a side of sangria

We're living in times of scarcity. Even an allegedly low key venue rejected our group. Freezing, sleepy, and still hungry (the latter was probably just me), we went into the Hurricane Club to warm up and brainstorm over overpriced drinks.

A random, vagabond promoter from Riff Raff's followed us into the Hurricane Club, and like the self-proclaimed coolies on train platforms in India, almost forced us back to the place from which we were rejected. Dignities intact and expensive drinks recently ordered, we said no.

Instead, we decided to walk over to the Gansevoort Hotel, (where I probably should have worn my new dress instead of a worn wife beater). Miraculously, we got in.

the music was enthralling, the view was captivating, the friends were  inspiring

The music enslaved us. The beat was constant, tantalizing, and yet not overbearing, not suffocating. I danced more than I anticipated, more than I had planned for, more than my Payless ankle booties could withstand. We lounged by the pool on the rooftop, from which the Empire State Building appeared so close I could hear the residual awe from this morning's tourists. By the end of the night, most of us had dispersed, confirming brunch plans for Cinco de Mayo before heading home. I was still at the Gansevoort with a few eager stragglers, and so my friend and I got into the Red Room, which, true to its namesake, was a room infused with flashing red lights. Again, we danced, we threw our hands in the air, we rejoiced the delicious turn of failed events that transpired, that led us atop a stage in a red room, in the Red Room.

By the time a friend lost one high heel and the DJ repeated a Sean Kingston song, we decided it was time to make our exit. I took a cab home, made myself a spinach hummus wrap, viciously killed a cockroach, and slept peacefully till the next morning, when I was awoken by the sounds of my own heart beating excitedly to the prospect of a new day, of a new adventure.

End of Day 3.

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

May Day

It's easy to take New York City for granted. For that matter, it's not only easy, but common, to take your home for granted, to forget that what you have in your hands at a single moment is ephemeral. 

I've never been on the IKEA water taxi. I've never eaten at the Central Park Boathouse Restaurant or Cafe, Vanessa's Dumplings, or Beauty & Essex. When I ventured to the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, I was sleepy, cranky, and still drank from juice boxes. I haven't yet explored the Cloisters, the Bodies Exhibit, or the Museum of Sex. I have never taken an improv class and I don't understand dim sum. I don't know the names of buildings in Manhattan, and still get confused about the geography of Brooklyn.

Still, I consider New York City my home. I have always been here, and assumed my life was of permanence, despite desperately yearning change. I thus always looked to tomorrow. There was always tomorrow to go to Alta, tomorrow to go to Basement Bhangra, tomorrow to go to trannie bingo at the Bowery Poetry Club.

But all of a sudden, there is no tomorrow. The wind is knocked out of me, I'm gasping for air, I'm leaving New York City. In thirty days, I bid farewell to family, friends, a sense of familiarity. I'm departing from my youth, from the place in which I both found and lost myself, from the moments I can not recapture once I set foot over the threshold.

I am compelled by an overwhelming sense of sadness, of pain, to wake up. I want to see and smell and touch and fall in love with and hate every inch of the city, till I want to have nightmares about "Post No Bills" and Dan Smith (from whom I have not learned the guitar, something else to add to my list).

Grimaldi's, exalted as the best pizzeria in New York City, is on the aforementioned list of things I postponed for tomorrow, a day which never came to pass, until today. To commemorate the beginning of the end, I decided to finally catch up with the scores of tourists who appreciate the transience of the city more than I do. I went to Grimaldi's.

Now, I should preface this monumental event. After several fears that the Grimaldi's in DUMBO would shut down, the owner opened a new branch in Kips Bay. I thus did not try Grimaldi's from the original coal fired oven, but it's newer counterpart. Whatever, baby steps.

The block surrounding Grimaldi's is infused with the welcome, delicious fragrance of slightly salty mozzarella cheese melting on hot, tangy tomato sauce. We walked into the restaurant, which, as my companion described, only conducted a "soft opening," and so its phone number was only listed on Post-its on the counter, its patrons were but a few, scattered hungry souls, and its entrance sign was hastily plastered on top of the sign from the previous store it replaced.

The honesty of the [new branch of the] infamous pizza spot was refreshing. Like the authentic inhabitants of this island, the new Grimaldi's did not pretend to be what it was not, nor did it seduce us with a saccharine facade, a fake smile. Rather, we were drawn by the tantalizing smells, without hesitation ordered our pizza, and without so much as a nod acknowledging the relationship between pizza maker and pizza taker, we took the food out, where we could enjoy a king's feast in a Manhattan dorm room.

Grimaldi's, NYC

As is the norm for New York City pizza, the crust was the best part of the slice. Like my father, I prefer most things crisp--crisp personalities, crisp clothing, crisp pizza crusts. In this case, the crust was a bit soft, but it was still soulful, still strong, without ambiguity or pretense. Like those locals who devour it, the pizza feigned nothing, exposing its own flaws and harsh truths to the vagaries of a cold, aloof universe, at the risk of pain, of loneliness, of anguish. The pizza might not have been the best I ever had (Lombardi's might win this one), but it was more than good enough. It was satisfaction. It was home.

End of Day 1