My Great American Dream

“Fiqrana ho ke hum jeeye, Khamakha hum jeeye na kyun

Beparwah ho ke hum jeeye, Khamakha hum jeeye na kyun”

Don’t worry. It’s not that I’ve taken a fascination for Akshay Kumar’s latest dud at the box office. It is just that I have no better words to sum up the ethos of the past three and a half months of my life in the capital of the world - a phase of meaninglessness, purposelessness, leisure and well, LIFE.

I still remember the day Mayur and I were having a discussion about my exchange program. While we had spent hours at length diagnosing the pros and cons of my escapade from IIM Bangalore for a good part of the 2^nd year of MBA, the bottom-line was surely not up for debate. This was going to be paradigm changing experience of my life. Has it been that way? Sure, and in ways more than one.

On my birthday on this 17^th of December, here are what I would like to call the 17 punctuation marks of my American story:

Bada hai to behtar hai (Big is better): In this country, size does matter. The very first sight I noticed as our British Airways flight was landing at the JFK on the 2^nd of September, was that of giant sized cars and goliathan trucks. Over the course of the next few days, I wintnessed “mini” cars that could have been called “sedans” by Indian standards, coffee mugs whose “Small” version was twice as large as their “Large” counterpart in India, burgers which had more stories than the BSE, and chips packets that were large enough to feed a family of four for a month. It seemed that the very definition of what human proportions are, was different. Don’t blame me if I ask for generous refills at my next restaurant visit.

Chalna hi zindagi hai (Walking is life): I never knew something as mundane and basic as the act of letting your feet hit the turf, could bring alive the joy of life. It sure helps when you see the world walking around you. Chinese, Japanese, Indians, Hispanics, Australians, Blacks – all resonating in lockstep with the pulse of the city, carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts or a Starbucks in their hand, an I-Pod plugged into their ears, and a thrall in their step – it is a sight that has framed itself in my memory.

Subway is not just a healthy sandwich store: This city survives on public transit. A staggering 55 percent of New Yorkers (around 5 million) commute to work everyday using the city’s subway system, which is not only the city’s lifeline but also one of the marvels of urban planning and management. Grapevine has it that they have enough underground capacity built in, into the initial plan (made in the 19^th century) that can serve the city for another century. With a subway map in hand, you are literally the king of Gotham – commuting to any place is just a card swipe away.

“Somebody went shopping”: These were the rhetorically twisted words that came out of Professor Murphy’s mouth as he saw me walk into his classroom with a “Toys R Us” bag. Such levels of informality with the professor are only remotely imaginable back home, where the power distance translates itself into making the teacher-student relationship a transactional one. Here, you may eat in class, sleep in class, leave when you so desire and still none of your actions would be seen as an insult on the person standing on the dais. Capitalism gives you the liberty to choose what you wish to do with your time. And surprisingly, after a few weeks of hangover from IIMB, I found myself sleep-immune in class. The ease with which our exams got preponed to accommodate our schedules, the friendliness of professors, but most of all, their humility despite all their knowhow – all this was pretty amazing for someone who has lived in a system that by its very imposing doctrine, drives you into mocking your professors, and forced attendance in classes.

Cynicism is a virtue: If I had to come up with a clever phrase, a “constructively destructive view of the world” is what this stint at Stern has endowed me with. A good teacher must necessarily be a cynic for he would not be able to challenge the minds of those being taught into questioning the status quo, if he himself were at peace with the way things are. Every professor here was a cynic, and the scathing sarcasm the likes of Yermack, Murphy and Damodaran let loose on corporate America, was stuff Russel Peters’ shows are made of.

Private Equity is a parallel universe: Till September, PE for me was this high-fangled world where strategy and finance apparently converged; it was a wondrous world where you could mint money faster than the reserve bank; it was stuff Chusli (Ankit) spoke about with his open arms. The notions of PE being a parallel universe, have been partially reinforced, and partially shattered. But it sure was the center of attention in two of the most electrifying courses here – Investment Banking and Restructuring Firms.

Damodaran is God: What’s that? It’s a bird. No, it’s a spaceship. No, it’s superman. Cut it out guys, its Aswath Damodaran. I had heard his name and its equity in the world of valuation before coming here. More often than not, things aren’t worth their hype. But studying valuation under the undisputed world authority in the subject, was an experience that far surpassed anything I had expected. When the Prince of Kolkata used to bisect the narrow gap between gully and backward point, they used to say – “On the off side, there’s God, and then there’s Ganguly”. Well, in valuation, there is no God, there’s only Damodaran.

Nights are for sleeping, so are floors: Nocturnal habits have long been a penchant of IITians. IIMites seem to be taking the art to a new level now, where 4 AM is the new 1 AM. But while New York never sleeps, I did, and in generous amounts. 10 hours was the norm, naps and subway sleepaways not included. The lack of a comfy mattress below me couldn’t stop me for pursuing the activity that is Mother Nature’s gift to mankind.

Cumin seeds are better than cumin powder: My biggest concern as I left Indian waters for such a long period was the one posed by my “sinful stomach” (translate that into Hindi). Vegetarianism will be a problem, they had said. They weren’t wrong. In a place where McDonalds’ only vegetarian offering is Coca Cola and a $10 vegetable roll in the US open tastes like the mangled remains of an MRF tyre, eating out is more pain than pleasure. But, necessity is the mother of invention, and also, experimentation. What began as a struggle to keep the rice from burning and the omelettes from turning into scrambled eggs, ended up as a series of culinary experiments where the guinea pig didn’t mind being fed food that was much more appetizing than anything the messes of IIT Roorkee or IIM Bangalore have offered me in the last 6 years. Call me a narcissist, but I’m a fan of my cooking now. And yes, cumin powder in daal is never as good as cumin seeds.

Social networking kills time faster than sleeping: When I had left for the US, my Facebook account had a barely three digit number in my friend list, ‘Twitter’ meant the activity that birds did, my blog had 9 posts in as many months of 2009 and I used to check my Orkut account once every 3-4 days. As I leave, my Facebook has 700 odd people in the friend list, I know how to use the ‘Notification’ tab and change settings for my account, Barkha Dutt regularly pollutes my Twitter page with her mind numbing frequency of tweets, my blog post per month average has quadrupled and I would have surely forgotten the password to my Orkut account, had it not been linked with Gmail.

East is always better than West: No, I’m not a spokesperson advocating for the supremacy of the culture and rituals of the East over the inhuman capitalism and imperialism of the West. I’m talking about the two coasts of America – one that I lived on, and the other was the venue of my longest and most enjoyable trip during these 4 months. LA was good, but the public transit system sucked. Too bad San Francisco could not be a part of our itinerary. But the most surprising element was how “being back to home” it felt as I returned to New York after that week long trip. Maybe the fact that I now know this city more than my hometown Lucknow has something to do with it. All said and done, East is better than the West, no double meanings intended.

Kuch hosh nahi rehta, Kuch dhyaan nahi rehta, Insaan Las Vegas mein, Insaan nahi rehta: For the benefit of those who do not know Hindi, the phrase means - You have neither consciousness nor memory, Human beings don’t remain human beings in Vegas. The crown jewel in this 4 month fiesta was the trip to a city that has no parallel in the world – the glittering oasis in the midst of the desert of Nevada. You see it in movies, you hear about it, but there is nothing like being in Vegas. The place will get to you. Troves of shining lights lined up one after another, the intermittent sounds of the counter stopping on a slot machine, the exulting cry of someone who just tripled his booty on the night and the despair of someone who lost a fortune in a drunken soiree – it all happens right here. And as they say – What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

The Mandrake hat called Internet: From repairing my laptop bugs to recipes for bhindi, from unlocking an I-Phone to purchasing a digital camera, from watching Sehwag take Lanka to the cleaners to seeing “Ajab Prem ki Ghazab Kahani” ten hours after its theatrical release – on this trip, the internet was my port of first resort, last resort, every resort. A new city became tractable, courtesy Google maps, friends didn’t stay distant and for once, my laptop didn’t turn off for weeks at length. God bless the US army for their miraculous invention.

Passions can be rediscovered, among other things: Running on a conveyor belt can often lead you into forgetting why you had set foot on the belt in the first place. This trip helped me get off the mindless flurry and take stock of where I stood. An empty mind may be a devil’s workshop, but it still is a workshop – a place for creativity. Old interests returned and old passions were reignited. Putting a night out to watch a Test innings may be considered blasphemy by IIMB standards, but watching cricket was never as much fun since the IPL-1 showdowns in the Ravindra Bhawan TV room at IIT Roorkee. Story writing proliferated, and some of you might have been victimized by my ramblings. New interests like cooking were engendered. And life came a full circle.

No booze, No party: Being a teetotaler in a land where booze is considered as normal as water, yet as mandatory as wearing clothes, is a hard task. My vow of teetotaling, taken a few months prior to leaving India was hence done away with, though the exorbitantly priced spirits meant that my enormous appetite for them was not unleashed. But it was interesting to notice that when I stood with a cranberry juice, people tended to behave as if I was a repulsive stinking street dog while the same people gravitated towards those that seemed to be out of their senses with amber liquids in their hands. Not quite unexpected in a nation where wine is a normal lunch time drink and where when a person says “Lets hang out”, it inevitably means the venue would be a bar.

Weekdays are weekdays, weekends are Weekends: Americans take their holidays seriously, and so did we. While weekdays are reserved strictly for work (Yes, it is not considered blasphemous if you are studying your notes in the lunch break), weekends is a time when people shun all work as if they were born to party. Just as festivals in India are synonymous with rituals, in the US it is synonymous with shopping. Stores post massive sales and discounts in the holiday season and people shop till they drop, literally. As I waited outside the world’s largest departmental store – the 34^th Street Macy’s, in the 4 AM freezing cold on Black Friday, I could barely see signs of recession among the enormous crowd surrounding me, waiting to get in, with huge bags in their hands. I was fortunate to be in the US for the onset of the festive season with Halloween, followed by Thanksgiving. Too bad I won’t be here for Christmas or New Year’s.

Swades and Pardes: As the time to depart came, I finally decided to pay heed to Mayur’s repeated exhortations of watching Swades, so that I get sentimental and start whining about returning to India. I did have a false start a couple of times but did not experience any irresistible urge to return to the homeland, as I was having way too much fun. Until today. On my way back after the last exam, I was, as customary, listening to music on my phone, while riding the subway. And the playlist serendipitously decided to shuffle the title song of the movie to the beginning of the list. Contrary to my usual reflex action of forwarding to the next song when I heard the beginning notes, I let it play. And a full five minutes later, I was overcome by an urge, though not a very strong one, to return home; to eat good Indian food that I don’t have to cook; to see my newborn niece; to talk in Hindi in public; to blow my 4.1 speakers in all their glory; to be able to call friends and family without incurring ISD charges; to be where the heart is.

This episode is coming to a close in the next few hours. A spate of challenges is awaiting me in that special place called IIMB, where human existence defies laws of humanity.

Looking back, I have no doubts about the fact that coming for this exchange program was one of the best decisions I made in my life. Given a choice, I would not want to relive the last three and a half months any differently, or in any other city for that matter. Gotham is what Gotham is – the capital of the world, and rightly so. I am still searching for a single word that can sum up my experience, but the closest I can say is that this sojourn has made me more “human”, if anything. I have started reliving my passions, pursuing my interests, talking to the people that matter, and have finally found a purpose in my life, which seemed to have been lost on me since the internship last summer. And all this after 4 months that can be safely termed as a haven of purposelessness.

These 100 odd days scripted an unforgettable chapter of my life, making the great American dream a reality for me. As I look at the ticking clock counting down my hours in this place, I am reminded of Don McLean’s words – “Bye Bye Miss American Pie…”

On The Subway (Part 6)

October 11, 2003

“This is it – the perfect ring”, he thought to himself as he peered over the ornate piece of diamond, crafted in the Windy city, “I’m finally going to propose to her. Amazing, isn’t it, after what has transpired in all these years?” – the rhetoric was no one but his to hear, and no one but his to answer. “Lonely, I’ve been all my life, but no more, no more”, he said to himself and picked up the phone to call her.

It was her answering machine. His voice trembled as he spoke after the voice mail beep,” Its me. I just returned from Chicago. Can we meet tomorrow for lunch, hmm, at the Times Square subway station? I’ll see you there at twelve”, he was about to press the ‘End’ button when he suddenly remembered, “Oh, and I have a surprise for you”

He couldn’t recollect why he wanted to ride the subway instead of driving his Porsche. Maybe, the crowd of the transit comforted him, and provided the platform for transition from the cold, dark world of loneliness to the hopeful light of togetherness.

October 12, 2003

As he climbed up the staircase to reach the floor where trains from the opposite direction arrived, he realized he hadn’t gone over what he was going to say as he held out the ring before her. He needed an epilogue, a punch line, something that was befitting the pinnacle of the roller coaster life their lives had together been. As these thoughts raced through his mind, he saw her. It was too late. Impromptu was the word.

She needed to tell him that she was at fault trying to come back into his life. She knew he wouldn’t understand any which way if she tried to tell him the truth. Hurting his ego could have been the only potential weapon against the man who loved her beyond anything else in the world. But now, he had foregone even that. She was powerless. “How do I make him hate me?”, she thought to herself, taking each measured step towards him.

As they walked towards each other with totally disparate emotions in their hearts, the subways and the city crowd zapped past them in both directions. They came within breathing distance.

“Listen..”, she had barely uttered her first word when he got down on his knees, held out the ring and said, “Will you marry me, Princess?”

She was choked, overwhelmed with emotion. In that moment, she forgot who she was, what she owned, why she lived and how she was going to die. The moment of nothingness had nothing save her and him. It seemed the world’s busiest train station around them had frozen in a time warp. She had waited for this moment for two years. She had sniffled in her bed on countless nights. Every day, she picked up the phone to call him and disconnected before the bell rang. She had lived in perennial hope, tracking his net worth every single day, and waited patiently for the day that he was twice as rich as her. She had sold off her personal belongings, had her house revalued, all in an attempt to be less poor to the world in wealth, but richer in anticipation of this moment.

“Yes”, she whispered, and burst into tears. He got up on his feet, and hugged her.

October 23, 2003

“It seems we are being followed”, he gasped. She turned her head and saw the van that was frantically following the Porsche’s tracks.

He pressed hard on the accelerator, and swiveled the vehicle, in an attempt to confound the stalkers. In the midst of the vortex, she thought to herself ,”Its my mistake. Why is he being punished for it?”

The van rammed into them from behind. The momentum transfer was phenomenal. He almost lost control of the vehicle. The side guard hit a BMW and was on its way down the Hudson.

She looked at his face. His skin was taut with attention, eyebrows raised, mouth open and bafflement pervaded his eyes. If only she could reverse time and let him go, and take the body blow on herself. She decided she had to be decisive, like she always had been. She opened the door, and leaped out.

The horror of what happened was incomprehensible. He couldn’t believe what had happened. As he turned back to see her, he saw her lying on the road. As he roared in horror, an oncoming truck rammed the Porsche into the bridge’s walls. A free fall followed.

The van driver cried, ”What just happened?”. The man beside him replied, “Doesn’t matter, as long as our job is done”, as he dialed a number on his cellphone.

“Target eliminated”, he whispered.

“Any problem?”, a heavy voice questioned from the other side.

“There was a girl with him. She was run over. She’s dead too”

--------------------- The End ------------------------

On The Subway (Part 5)

September 28, 2003

“This way, madam”, the airline official ushered her into the express check-in cabin, dragging her suitcase behind him. She wasn’t expecting to meet them here.

As she entered the room, she found two men clad in black suits, waiting for her. She heard the official close the door behind her, as he stepped out. The men got up to greet her. They took seats.

The taller one among the two men spoke first – “Your highness, I hope you do realize that your life is a matter of national concern”. She nodded her head.

“And this kind of uncooperative behavior is least appreciated by us”, the shorter man spoke, angrily.

The tall man moved his palm to silence his colleague. “Your highness, You are under mortal danger and we recommend you to be given Z-level security. Furthermore, you cannot travel outside the city till we have credible evidence against the threats you’ve received, from our intelligence”, he placed his hands on the table, trying to give it an air of finality. But you didn’t speak last if you were speaking with the princess.

She got up, took hold of her suitcase, and announced, “Thank you gentlemen for all your concern. But you would be better off focusing your energies on matters that are actually of national importance, and excuse me to live my life the way I want to”

The shorter man jumped up, shouting, “You have no damn idea what you are getting into. You’re not leaving this city”

“I’m leaving this country, and now”, her words were powerful, but poised.

“But what if you are attacked?”, the taller man was exasperated.

“The country will be better off with one less rich heiress and many more full stomachs”, she announced, tossing her will onto the table.

”Good day, gentlemen”, her voice echoed, as the officers still grappled with the storm that had just passed them.

September 27, 2001

“Why the hell is it raining at this time of the year”, her frustration was unmistakable, but undirected. As the manager opened the door, two escorts promptly took their positions on the sidelines. She stepped out, carefully avoiding a puddle and balanced herself with immaculate poise despite the high heels and the slippery turf. The escorts swung into action, opening two huge umbrellas to cover the princess from any earth bound droplet that posed the threat of so much as moistening her highness’ Egyptian silk overcoat. The manager ushered her into the hotel, the newest addition to the eponymous franchise she owned. As she glided through the entrance from the damp coldness of September rain into the air conditioned warmth of the hotel lobby, a series of blinding flash lights went off. Paparazzi surrounded her, and countless microphones and scratch pads came swiveling out of their pandora boxes. She felt sick, and exhausted from the air travel. She wanted to get it done and over with, fast.

An hour later, as she was waiting for the confirmation of her return flight, her mind wandered. She gazed out of the window and looked at the rain drops, falling into the enormous depth of the forty floors that stood beneath her feet. Then she looked up, and saw where they were coming from. And it dawned on her – the depths they had to travel were miniscule when juxtaposed to the heights they had descended. His words came back to haunt her – “You’ve become big, maybe, too big for me”

“Excuse me, Ma’m”, her train of thoughts was interrupted by the sterile voice emanating from the floating head that was peering in through the ajar door. It was the manager. “Ma’m, your flight is delayed by another hour. Would you want something?”, he politely asked. “No, I’m good”, she said, motioning the man to spare her some privacy while she had it.

“Contemplation is the poison of relationship”, he had said. She had to be decisive in her personal life, as she had been in her business. She took out her phone and dialed his number. Three attempts later, she threw the phone onto the floor, dislodging its batteries. Life had taught her to be a go-getter. If one door closes, build another. She opened her laptop, and zapped into her e-mail account.

Before she could click on the ‘Compose’ button, an unread message caught her eyes. It was from him.

---

“Take that road, the one that is ugly, dark, infested with thorny plants and manned by devil’s minions. For it is that road that will lead you to your redemption” – he read the bumper sticker for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. It was time to pull the trigger. He took out his phone and dialed her number. An ‘Out of Reach’ signal greeted his impatience. He opened his laptop and began to type frantically.

“It has been three months since we talked to each other. The fact that both of us have gigantic egos that even a blast furnace can’t melt hasn’t helped matters. I thought I could forget what you said, or that you would have the gumption to free me from my ignominy. Unfortunately, neither has transpired. As it stands, it seems unlikely that we can ever get back together. The amount of pain you have caused me far outstrips the joy that you had once given me.

I leave for New York today, to rebuild the twin towers. And I’ll not return unless I earn enough money to buy your hotel chain, the one that you inherited from your royal descent and now so proudly flaunt, two times over.

Thank you for everything, and Sorry for anything”

He re-read the document, wiped the frown off his face, and clicked on ‘Send’.

October 05, 2003

“It was a mistake we made to let each other go. I am not letting go this time”, he muttered, taking her head into his hands, and wiping her cheeks. “I’m not letting go either”, she said, her voice choked with tears.

“What are you not letting go?”, the dreary voice of her aunt awoke her. She saw her crouched over the bed, holding the breakfast tray. She realized she had been dreaming the dream that was close to coming true.

As she was nibbling on the toast, dwelling still, on the pleasant dream that had greeted her morning, the phone rang. She picked it up with the alacrity of a school girl, expecting it to be him. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number.

“Ma’m, this is the Indian Embassy. We’ve received a standing order from the Indian Intelligence to give you 24 * 7 protection. Your life is under threat…”, she disconnected the phone.

As she threw the phone onto the bedstand, her eyes fell on “The New York Times” lying there. She picked it up. The cover page carried his photograph with the headline – “New York Real Estate Magnate to be honored in Chicago today”. She ran her hands over the paper replica of his face. A tear escaped her eye.

“I can’t do this to him. I can’t put his life in danger. He deserves to enjoy every bit of the success he has earned. I can’t be selfish. But…”, her voice was choked now, the same way she had felt some minutes ago in her dream. She picked up the phone again, and dialed his number.

On The Subway (Part 4)

October 23, 2003

“We’ve been through so much. When I look back, everything seems incredible”, she said, as the car hit the turf of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“And still, you have not let me free from your grasp”, he chuckled.

“Shut up”, her face turned into a frown, and then an innocent smile.

A few minutes of silence followed. She was still looking out of the window. The Statue of Liberty was visible in the distance. She turned back and looked at him. Her thoughts went back to the time when she had first met him – a simple man clad in white shirt and black trousers had accidentally walked into his office. She mistook him for one of the waiters from her hotel downstairs, only to realize that he had come to interview for the position of her personal secretary – a job he never got.

As she looked at him now, he realized how ambition had fueled and propelled him into becoming the man he was. He had struggled in his life, fought hard against the odds. He had left his country – the very country he had never vowed to leave, to achieve his goal. She knew he would return some day – but not before doing what he had come to do. And she felt proud sitting beside the most celebrated realtor in Manhattan, who still retained the boyish charm of waiting for her by a city street.

“I’ve seen too much in my life. The spate of betrayals has shattered me from inside. I can’t bring myself to trust anyone. But I want to trust him. He has been through his share of challenges. And he is a broken man too. And still, he stands strong”, she thought to herself.

He adjusted the rear view mirror. A blue van was visible in the distance. As he turned the silverware, his eyes fell on her somber face. He could read her mind.

“Sometimes, two broken pieces can fit together to form a complete whole”, he smiled.

The van inched closer.

September 27, 2003

“Madam, your tickets for New York have been booked”, the secretary’s voice echoed from the speaker phone.

“Thanks Margaret”, she disconnected the line.

“I’ll finally meet him, after two years”, she couldn’t stifle her smile as the thought possessed her.

She opened her drawer. A dark red book lay unobstrusively in the corner. Red had always been her color, even for diaries. The cover of the diary bore the emblem of the chain of hotels she owned, the flagship of which was housed in the 13 floors beneath her feet. She took it out and opened it to the page titled September 27, 2001.

“He’s leaving today – leaving this city, this country, this place. I could have never imagined my words could have hurt him so deeply. I never knew my intemperance could bruise his ego so badly that he would not think twice before abandoning the road we had set foot together on. But I had never meant to hurt him. I never could, and I never will. Maybe this is all for the good, maybe he deserves something else. Or maybe I needed this. But somehow, it seems wrong. I’m sad and I don’t know how the future will unfold. Will it ever be what it was like?”

“Yes, it will be now”, she exclaimed as she closed the diary and replaced it.

The phone beeped again. She pressed the speaker button. Margaret’s voice reverberated ,”Ma’am, Its them again. Should I put you through?”

She paused for a second. “Yes”, the time lagged affirmative came in a heavy voice.

After a while, the phone buzzed, “Madam, the matter is really serious now. This is the second warning…”

On The Subway (Part 3)

October 23, 2003

“Does this look ok?”, she asked. He didn’t hear her. His mind was preoccupied with something else. “I said”, she raised her pitch, “Does this look OK?”. But he was lost. As he turned, a projectile sandle met his forehead. . The train of thoughts which was about to change tracks had met with an accident.

“You never pay attention to what I say”, she complained.

“Who are you, by the way?”, he chuckled.

Another projectile sandle approached him. This time he was attentive enough to dodge it over his head.

“You look great. Can we go now?”, he said.

“You are good for nothing”, she said and went in to change. Five minutes later, she was back in a new dress. Before she could open her mouth, a voice reached her ears.

“You look phenomenal, out of this world. Can we go now?”, it was him, standing on the window sill, muttering those words with his back turned towards her.

She stamped her feet and went in again.

“How do I make her understand that she looks phenomenal in everything? How do I tell her that a diamond – whether engraved in a ring, shielded in a museum, pendant on a necklace, or unpolished at a jeweller’s store – was still a diamond – precious, beyond measure”, he heard her footsteps again.

“You look mindblowing. Can we go now?”, he pleaded, as he turned around and caught glimpse of a man in a dense turban, with thick moustaches and a flowing beard. His drink almost fell out of his hands.

“Does this look OK?”, he heard the childlike voice from behind the hairy tangle.

“Oh my God”, he burst into laughter, beating his fists onto the wall. Then he fell over, rolling on the floor, a fresh burst of giggle deluding him everytime he looked up at her in the disguise. The moustache, beard and turban clad princess began to laugh too.

Sanity returned by the time they took their seats in the car. As he was turning the keys, he said, his voice gruff, “You know what?”

“What?”, she questioned, her eyes turned towards him.

“You are the only girl who has ever made me laugh”, he pressed the accelerator and they were on the road.

September 30, 2003

1 PM – his watch read. Funnily enough, it had been reading the same for the last eleven times he had seen it in the last sixty seconds. “Where is she?”, he thought to himself.

As he was about to turn his wrist for the twelfth time, the sight of a black limousine caught his glance. He followed its track as the vehicle slowed down and parked itself in front of him. The door opened, and there she was.

“Hi”, he muttered, not knowing what else to say, and lent his right hand forward to shake, not knowing what else to do.

“What a fool? I’m meeting him after so long and he can’t even hug me”, she thought to herself as they shook hands.

“So, where do you want to go?”, he queried.

“Should we eat something first?”, she asked, knowing that he wouldn’t have had breakfast. He had only woken up by her call an hour ago and knowing him, she knew he would rather go hungry than be late.

“Ok, let us go to this Italian restaurant – The Tavern”, he motioned towards the north with his hands.

“No Italian, Only Indian – South Indian”, she argued.

“You’ve come all the way to New York to eat Indian food?”, he was baffled.

“No, I’ve come all the way to New York to meet an Indian man”, she smiled.

On The Subway (Part 2)

October 19, 2003

“It is in moments such as these”, he whispered, “that I feel the loneliest”. As he stood with his hands stretched on the terrace hedge, the expanse of Manhattan was lit before him. The glittering lights of the concrete jungle were mesmerizing.

“How can you feel alone in the most happening city of the world – the city where even loneliness doesn’t feel alone?”, she questioned, taking a sip from the glass.

“It’s not the din outside that defines internal peace”, he turned his back to the city of dreams, “A good package can’t make a gift out of garbage”

“Why do you feel alone, when you have me?”, she put her hands into his.

His eyes welled. “All this time, you have always lived with the belief that I was there for you. And you never take credit for being there, for me”, he said.

“Ssshhh”, she whispered. He went quiet, as he always did.

October 05, 2003

“Sir, your phone is ringing”, the housekeeper shouted at the top of his voice. He woke up with a start, and heard the familiar ringtone.

“Hello”, he mumbled, his throat still dry.

“I need to talk to you”, her voice was unmistakable.

“Then what are you doing right now?”, he managed to force in his banal sense of humor even while in sleep.

“Shut up. When are you coming here?”, she demanded.

“Will be there next week”, he answered, as the line got disconnected.

He stood up and went up to the window. It was raining outside. The spattering of water on the window sill was the only sound audible. He closed his eyes to think about her. Dating a princess was not easy. And her behaving like she wasn’t one, didn’t help.

“Sometimes, I fondly recollect the days when I possessed something called ego”, he thought to himself.

On The Subway (Part 1)

October 12, 2003

“Okay, so the first place we go is…”, he stuttered in the middle of the sentence.

“The Tavern”, she completed the blank, as always.

The name brought a smile to his face. As they climbed their way into open air, the bright sunshine hit them in the eye. He placed his hand on her forehead to shield them from the sun. Apparently, no chivalry was too much chivalry for him.

They began to walk on the kerb. She noticed the troves of men and women walking beside them, past them, with them. She loved New York for this. You never felt alone in this city. A strange pulsating spirit seemed to run through the veins of this city at any given moment. Walking, which she had hated as a chore back home, had come alive as a pleasure in this city of walkers. And walking beside him was a pleasure greater still.

She tightened her grip on his arms as they were about to cross the street. She knew it was not necessary. New York was no Delhi – When the white man on the pedestal lit up, pedestrians could walk with all the élan in the world. And the country’s notoriously large lawsuit claims had infused a perpetual fear of any walking object, in the minds of automobile drivers.

But this gesture was a signal – she needed him, and she wanted him to know it. And he did.

October 12, 2003

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please”, the announcement echoed in his ears as he saw the door-halves approaching each other in perfect unison and meeting with an ever so gentle thud. The train began to move.

As he pressed his face against his palms, he could feel the moisture that had welled up in his eyes. He wiped it with his shirt sleeve and began to look around sheepishly. The compartment was unusually empty for this hour of the day. “Loneliness stalks you everywhere”, he thought to himself.

The sound of sniffles interrupted his train of thought. He lifted his head to decipher the source of the sound. It was originating from a lady at the other end of the compartment. A man seated beside her was mumbling something to himself, apparently in great anger. He strained his ears to listen to what he was saying.

“One man’s agony is another man’s pleasure” – he had learnt one of the fundamental dictums of human psychology, during his graduation class on Human Behavior. The realization that he wasn’t the only soul bereft of joy on this planet was sadistic, but pacifying. The propensity of New Yorkers to wash their dirty linen in public provided ample opportunities for this decadent activity.

“Nothing remains the same. Everything changes. Nothing’s forever”, the words came out intermittently between the sniffles.

“True”, he thought to himself, as he ran his fingers into his pockets and felt the cold metal inside.