Last week I ate my first solitary meal. I sat by the window seat at a small place, Chickpea, that boasted of organic halal food and free soda refills. I had always been apprehensive about eating without friends at school; I thought people would pity me for having few friends or, worse, find out about all the nights I battled with severe loneliness. The City, with its belly full of people, most of whom did not give a damn about me, was different. Seeing the homeless on the streets and the hardworking making a living delivering hot food to lazy 20 somethings gave me the courage to fight my fears and eat alone. I also figured that no one would stop to look twice at a girl sitting by the corner window in an eatery, chewing on her bland Americanized halal food.
Eating alone was not as hard as I had imagined. My vantage point behind the glass window gave me a clear view of the street and the people going about their business. There were a good number of dog leashes intertwining, a few clumsy collisions between strangers, some people struggling with their grocery bags, men and women in sharp business suits walked briskly. There was quite a bit of color on the street for it had started out as a sunny day. The yellow light from the sky flooded into New York and brightened the pinks, oranges and blues. People seemed happy enough; I did not hear any curse words travel through the glass or see anyone push anyone aside to make way on the sidewalk. But, soon, the sun hid behind the clouds and the street changed as like an actor who changes her emotions on cue. In a few minutes, the rain splashed against the glass, black umbrellas opened up, the colors seemed to dissolve into grey, people ran into the subway stations across the street, humans pushed each other aside, the puppies disappeared from sight. I watched the city street change; people moved faster, trying to avoid getting drenched under the fat drops of water. They did not look happy enough any more. The change in the mood of the street enticed me to reach out to the humans out in the rain. Not one of these people was known to me; I knew no names and had no addresses. Yet, I decided to assign troubles and sorrows to them. And a few joys.
I looked at a thin blonde woman wrapped in her yellow dress, walking cautiously under her black umbrella. She stood out from the crowd of other New Yorkers for no particular reason; there is no dearth of beautiful people in the city so it was not her appearance that caught my attention. It may have been the bright yellow that set her apart. Whatever it was, she caught my attention and I assigned a story to her. She was, I imagined, walking carefully because she had a secret rendezvous in Central Park, with a man she had only interacted with through letters, and she wanted her boots and clothes to be dry. Hers was an unusual approach, in her day no one wrote letters. If people wanted to be unconventional, and a little creepy, they used the missed chances section of craigslist. But, letters were different and she wanted her love, if that is what this interaction turned into, to be special. She walked up to the cross street and waited for the lights to change. She was not worried about the time; arriving on the dot would make her look too excited. If she had painstakingly written letters for the past month then, she thought, she had to show some more patience. The lights changed and she instinctively looked to her left and right before walking across the pinstriped concrete. And just like that, she disappeared from my eye and disappeared into the horde of New Yorkers who were too far and unfamiliar.
By the time the woman left my part of the street, my meal was done. I thought more about the woman as I cleaned up and threw out my leftovers into the trashcans: What if the woman was actually on her way to her office, hoping to stay dry so as to look professional? What if she was on her way to afternoon class, excited about turning in her essay on the semiotics of social media? Or, what if she was on her way to the doctor’s to pick up her test results, her dress bright so it could absorb any bad news that might be thrown her way? It did not matter what her real story was. I had given one and that was the truth about her for me. The woman had no idea and my story affected no part of her life. And, it was in this little afternoon lunch that I articulated to myself the truth about the city – no one knows anyone and it is easy to live a life without affecting anyone. You can hide in the comfort of anonymity and at the same time reach out into the millions and make someone the protagonist of your story without changing a thing about the city or the universe.
Living in the city is truly a lesson in the inconsequentiality of human life in the grand scheme of events.
I stepped out of the restaurant into a puddle of sunshine. The rain had subsided and streets looked dirtier in the bright light, pools of brown water lit up in the yellow of the sun. Even amidst the dirt and grime, I felt I had enjoyed seeing the city change from sunny to dreary to sunny again. I saw the city come to life in two different ways and sat through the transformation like a spectator at a street show, untouched by the movement and changes on the stage.
Until next time, readers.
Eating alone was not as hard as I had imagined. My vantage point behind the glass window gave me a clear view of the street and the people going about their business. There were a good number of dog leashes intertwining, a few clumsy collisions between strangers, some people struggling with their grocery bags, men and women in sharp business suits walked briskly. There was quite a bit of color on the street for it had started out as a sunny day. The yellow light from the sky flooded into New York and brightened the pinks, oranges and blues. People seemed happy enough; I did not hear any curse words travel through the glass or see anyone push anyone aside to make way on the sidewalk. But, soon, the sun hid behind the clouds and the street changed as like an actor who changes her emotions on cue. In a few minutes, the rain splashed against the glass, black umbrellas opened up, the colors seemed to dissolve into grey, people ran into the subway stations across the street, humans pushed each other aside, the puppies disappeared from sight. I watched the city street change; people moved faster, trying to avoid getting drenched under the fat drops of water. They did not look happy enough any more. The change in the mood of the street enticed me to reach out to the humans out in the rain. Not one of these people was known to me; I knew no names and had no addresses. Yet, I decided to assign troubles and sorrows to them. And a few joys.
I looked at a thin blonde woman wrapped in her yellow dress, walking cautiously under her black umbrella. She stood out from the crowd of other New Yorkers for no particular reason; there is no dearth of beautiful people in the city so it was not her appearance that caught my attention. It may have been the bright yellow that set her apart. Whatever it was, she caught my attention and I assigned a story to her. She was, I imagined, walking carefully because she had a secret rendezvous in Central Park, with a man she had only interacted with through letters, and she wanted her boots and clothes to be dry. Hers was an unusual approach, in her day no one wrote letters. If people wanted to be unconventional, and a little creepy, they used the missed chances section of craigslist. But, letters were different and she wanted her love, if that is what this interaction turned into, to be special. She walked up to the cross street and waited for the lights to change. She was not worried about the time; arriving on the dot would make her look too excited. If she had painstakingly written letters for the past month then, she thought, she had to show some more patience. The lights changed and she instinctively looked to her left and right before walking across the pinstriped concrete. And just like that, she disappeared from my eye and disappeared into the horde of New Yorkers who were too far and unfamiliar.
By the time the woman left my part of the street, my meal was done. I thought more about the woman as I cleaned up and threw out my leftovers into the trashcans: What if the woman was actually on her way to her office, hoping to stay dry so as to look professional? What if she was on her way to afternoon class, excited about turning in her essay on the semiotics of social media? Or, what if she was on her way to the doctor’s to pick up her test results, her dress bright so it could absorb any bad news that might be thrown her way? It did not matter what her real story was. I had given one and that was the truth about her for me. The woman had no idea and my story affected no part of her life. And, it was in this little afternoon lunch that I articulated to myself the truth about the city – no one knows anyone and it is easy to live a life without affecting anyone. You can hide in the comfort of anonymity and at the same time reach out into the millions and make someone the protagonist of your story without changing a thing about the city or the universe.
Living in the city is truly a lesson in the inconsequentiality of human life in the grand scheme of events.
I stepped out of the restaurant into a puddle of sunshine. The rain had subsided and streets looked dirtier in the bright light, pools of brown water lit up in the yellow of the sun. Even amidst the dirt and grime, I felt I had enjoyed seeing the city change from sunny to dreary to sunny again. I saw the city come to life in two different ways and sat through the transformation like a spectator at a street show, untouched by the movement and changes on the stage.
Until next time, readers.
