Over twenty-four hours of travel time, we land in New York. It is 7am in the morning, rainy and overcast. Not exactly the homecoming I am expecting, hoping that spring and warmth would welcome me. My parents pick me up, overjoyed and relieved, as we hug tightly, making up for lost time. They are amazed about my changed appearance, the golden tan and nose piercing, tattoo and bindi fixed upon my forehead. We share a car ride back to my apartment where I fill them in, gushing about the incredible events of the trip. It is so good to see my parents; they are what I missed the most.
After several difficult trips of carrying my suitcases up my five-story walk-up, I am left to unpack and settle in. I painstakingly go through everything, carefully uncovering all the treasures I have accumulated over the past month. Three hours later, I am ready to venture out to the grocery store to restock my kitchen. Up and down the aisles, I scour for anything resembling Indian food. I am repulsed by many of my old favorites and feel desperate to find the fruit, vegetables, spices and sauces that have become part of my daily diet. I spend a large part of the afternoon, rummaging up and down the aisles, spending an extended amount of time in the ethnic food section. I make some small joyous discoveries. Papaya and mangoes, lentils, shredded coconut and okra. I find packages of Indian spices to douse on vegetables and recipes to make Goan shrimp and chicken Tikka Masala. I feel like a child on Christmas morning with the array of goodies in my basket. That, however, is short lived when I reach the checkout counter and the cashier informs me that my bill is one hundred and thirty dollars for my measly two bags of groceries. I damn near fall down in shock. I did not pay that much for the entire MONTH of meals! There has to be some mistake. I am suddenly slapped with the stark reality of New York prices. I forgot momentarily how expensive this city is, how absurdly priced something as basic as food costs. I am certainly missing my wad of rupees right now.
After my makeshift meal of bananas, cashews and shredded coconut, I decide to take a walk through my neighborhood, reacquainting myself with the sights and smells. Every other time in my life, I have been happy to come back to the city after a vacation. Usually, I see the New York skyline and my heart leaps, for I know this is my home. Something has changed this trip. I do not feel the love I once had from this city. It is possible for it to return, as I am sure it will over time, but today, it seems cold, harsh and lonely. The foggy skies thicken everything, as I sense how depressed and unhappy people are here. I cannot find a friendly face as I stroll down Broadway. Barely anyone even makes eye contact, as all of my smiles go unnoticed. Occasionally, I feel judging eyes stare at me, questioning my new vibrant wardrobe and Indian jewelry. I am unphased, as I intend to keep the internal bond I have made to Mother India.
Traveling offers an amazing perspective. Being away for a month, I gain so much clarity about how we, as Americans live. I ride the subways and witness the mindlessness of this place, the lack of human contact, lack of empathy. More than half the train is entranced with his or her cell phone, blackberry or ipod. Everyone in their own head, absorbed with thoughts, not present and lacking any awareness of surroundings and others. I feel like I am in a crowd of robots, half dead and dying slowly. We live in such an unnatural environment, trees replaced by steel rods of buildings. Under too much stress and priorities asked, it is no wonder misery pervades. Americans think they have problems here, which I am sure many of them do. I am not trying to diminish the strife anyone experiences in life. But back in India, most people are concerned with survival, basic needs of shelter and clothing and their next meal. Many of them have no more than the shirt on their back but they exhibit more happiness than the millionaires that run this city. Before leaving for this trip, I was one of them. Concerned with the pettiness of my simple life, thinking my problems are gargantuan when really they pale in comparison to most of the outside world. I always knew how fortunate I was, to be born in this country, to have the freedom and monetary means to live as I please. But now, it rings true even more so than ever.
A few days and already I feel the New York City noose tighten around my neck. I am fighting to keep my free spirit alive and kicking, not burdened down by the weight of Western mentality. I am focusing on being rather than doing, attempting to avoid the rushing, crazy energy of this place. I take solace in the newly decorated peace room, where I retreat whenever I feel strangled by the city.
I know that I have a choice on how to live. I can easily slip back into the rat race, focusing on how many hours I need to work and how much money there is to be made. Or I can live more naturally, more creative and in-tune, taking time to meditate or walk in the park or write a poem. I do not have to live in my self-contained, self-absorbed bubble of existence. I can take a minute to smile at a passer-by, to slow down my walking pace, to really enjoy the simpler things in life.
No comments:
Post a Comment