The New York Story

(Written in 2007)

We arrived in New York city on a sultry August afternoon.

I expected It would be a surreal- larger than life, experience in the city we already heard of so much. But it was more like setting foot on a lonely island – far away from home and near and dear ones.

We called, e mailed our friends and relatives back home constantly to cut our loneliness. We mailed about the Manhattan’s most neatly organised street and  anvenue grid,  open air performances at Central Park, Dakota House and the spot where John Lenon wrote is songs, East River Park, Ground Zero etc

I realized I was telling them all that anyone would find in tourist literature.

I must discover new and untold stories of New York that I could tell in few words on e mails. Such stories have a lot of appeal to people like me- lazy enough to write anything longer than a post-it note (or SMS or twits).

I heard Ernest Hemingway, as a young newspaperman in the 1920s, bet his colleagues $10 that he could write a complete story in just six words. He won the cash with "For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."  
My favorite is a two-word story Nokia writes on its mobile phone ads- “Connecting People”. Nokia’s story is- our business is connecting people by giving them a mobile phone each - in Himalayan Buddhist Monasteries, African or Indian villages or wherever they are - so that they have a choice to connect to one another across the world. That we earn a profit in billions is only incidental.

We finally got over our loneliness in a few weeks time.

But quest for a story that defines New York stayed in my mind.

New York though , had surprises from day one.

The taxi driver at New York airport was or precisely I thought he was, African American.  I told him we just arrived from India. “Welcome to New York” – he said with a smile.

But he did not speak as I had expected him to like Will Smith or Eddy Murphy. He spoke English rather like I did. He turned out to be from Ghana. An Indian teacher taught him English at school. After graduating in English literature from University in Ghana he came chasing his American dream and thought driving taxi was better than chasing an elusive English teacher’s job in Ghana.  I felt tickled- if news of our arrival in New York was good enough to be reported in press the headline would read- “African Immigrant Welcomes Indian Family to New York”.

In the days that followed-, I met immigrants and Americans of descents ranging from Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Nepalese, several South American nationalities at stores, my apartment building and taxies. In the number 6 Lexington Avenue subway that I took to work every day- one could overhear people speaking in several different languages or at least several different accents of English. Sitting in the subway compartment- I gave myself a test – guess the ethnicity/ country of origin of every person present. And I would go about- Chinese/ Japanese, Indian/Pakistani/ Sri Lankan/ Bangladeshi, Middle Eastern/Egyptian. Iranian/ Central Asian, Mexican/ South American and so on till my stop came.

‘New York- where the World Meets’, I thought, will make a good story to be told in my e mails.

But is it a new story? Everyone knews- people from everywhere came to New York, United Nations Head quarters have been here for decades. Our Bollywood producers have made tons of money by shooting their films here with such regularity that Brooklyn Bridge and Howrah Bridge seems close to one another; Manhattan sounds like Manoharan (Hindi for one that steals my heart); New Jersey and New Delhi come up in the same breath.

It was the first few weeks and I had not yet got an opportunity to socialize with an American born within the country. All my exchanges with people had been on business- at counters or the doormen in my apartment building etc.- all very polite and helpful but no personal exchanges. I asked a colleague, why are the people in New York so reserved?  "I think they are tense", he said. I wanted to know why and he said thoughtfully, "I think they want to make money". The whole world wants to make money, I laughed- how are they different.

"They want to make more money". So do we, I wondered what he wanted to say. "The point is- in rest of the world- you only dream. Here you actually do", he said with the air of finally giving out the answer to the puzzle. For me the puzzle was not yet solved- they
should be happy, not tense if they make more money.

"The trouble is- when you have made money or more money- your friends or neighbors made still much more and so you are tense again. But do not bother- you will enjoy New York", he dismissed any further searching question from me.

“New York- where Dreams Come True”- I thought, is a real story. But on second thought -has not the story lost its shine somewhat now after the Wall Street meltdown?

After some months- we were planning a trip home. A friend called up and asked if I could bring with me the last six volumes Marx and Engels.  I said instantly- I thought you would look for them in Cuba or North Korea. He explained that New York has one of three publishers of these volumes in English language- other two being in Moscow and London. The Moscow publisher  used to be the least expensive but had  stopped publishing and the New York publisher was selling at lower price among the remaining two. I looked up the website of the publishers and called my friend if he would like to waste $200 on books on what most of the world think is a lost cause? He said he would as he wants to have complete volumes for the library. Out of sheer curiosity- I went the publishers’ office to know while placing the order, who buys these books anyway. I was told hundreds of universities in USA and elsewhere in the world regularly buys them for their research libraries and conducts research work even though far fewer people believe in communism. After all it is a free country, I was informed.

Free country it is. My son Rubu told me that in the East village there is a bar with an eyebrow raising name of KGB Bar (actually  a neighbourhood bar and a literary society I was told) . East village- described as the place of counterculture, protests and riots by wikipedia  is also the place where you could get to hear singers from the farthest corner of Africa, meet struggling artists, musicians, independent film makers from all over the world. Manhattan is dotted with China Town, Korea Town, Little India, Little Italy etc.

‘All Cultures and Beliefs Meet at New York’- I said while thinking if it would make the best New York story.

But would not  it sound a bit like a promotional line for inter faith conference?

It was two years and the real story of New York was still not found- I thought as I was heading home after work. Grand Central station was teeming with people.  An Andean band was playing- with lead on flute- in a corner in the main thoroughfare. Bits of the music sounded like Bihu on buffalo horn ‘Pepa’ in my hone state Assam in North Eastern India. I was told that any one is free to perform at subway stations. I had seen scores of musicians and bands of people of all ages play at Grand Central and other subway stations- jazz,blues, violin solo, Andean music, Christmas carol and instrumental music played by an African musician on an instrument made of a huge bottle gourd shell. Many of the performers are selected by MTA – the owners of subway lines but it is not necessary for anyone to be selected to perform.

The platform of Number 6 train was full of the Bronx crowd waiting for their train and of noise of trains coming and passing by at other platforms. Yet- a familiar sound of drum beat was coming clearly from somewhere nearby. A man - who looked South Asian or could be Caribbean - was completely immersed in playing fast paced beats on his drum of the shape and size of a giant half egg of a dinosaur. A few people were watching him play perhaps out of curiosity but most people paid no attention to him.  He did not seem to care. Clearly he was enjoying what he was doing. In many places- he would be considered a nuisance by the society if not by law. But in this crowded subway platform at New York he created his own little space.

Space!! Eureka! I found the New York story I was chasing all this long.  That New York gives space to everyone including the nameless drummer from another land.

‘New York- Space for Everyone’- I decided- would be my story of New York. I felt lighter in my head as I tried to squeeze in to get a foothold in the Number 6 train. An elderly woman made some room- just standing space, for me in the compartment where every inch was now filled.