what new york taught me

pity. it surged through me as i prepared to leave america for india's only city worth living in, mumbai.

i pitied the thousands who come to my city each year, people i am only just beginning to understand. i pitied those who chose to stay on, against all odds, hoping a few thousand rupees at the end of every month, or the illusory sense of a 'career', would justify their leaving their lives and their youth behind.

three months may be too short a time to arrive at this conclusion, but let me elaborate.

my first surge of pity came from the fact that i am confronted with newcomers right through the year. every month they arrive, young men and women from all corners of india, hoping to make it big in mumbai, incidentally the only city that comes close to offering a new york-like experience.

the pity came from my three months in america, that taught me this: whether it's three months or three years, you can never, ever understand a city you weren't born in or grew up in. you can try your hardest – speak hindi like a bombayite or yell 'sup dude' in manhattan – but you will never have access to the essence of that city. its locals will acknowledge your presence and some may even become your friends, but you will never break the tight circles they weave around each other. i know because i have such circles too.

here's something else i fail to make sense of, no matter how hard i try. people tell me how they miss their cities, their families, their friends and neighbourhoods. and yet, they leave them all behind, hoping for a kind of success they will never achieve. what is success anyway? a bigger cheque? a badly-written 'coming-of-age' novel? despite the company of a great many friends in new york, i felt strangely anchorless without access to my immediate support group in india.

and yet, i can't blame these people for leaving everything behind. i saw the same dream reflected in the eyes of a hundred immigrants from india dragging themselves to america in the hope of finding fortune. all they find are marginally bigger salaries that they then spend on redecorating their living rooms. some are successful, of course. but many are not.

maybe a move to a new city is born of insecurity. new cities offer anonymity, after all. they let you escape prying eyes, and relentless questions. it somehow seems like the romantic thing to do, as far removed from reality as it may be. it absolves you from the need to prove yourself to neighbours and relatives. it enable your parents to say, 'oh, sunil works in bombay'. 'sunil works in washington'. 'sunil works in france'.

sunil probably sells samosas for a living, but meena aunty from karol bagh will never know.

i fear no such questions. i am back home, in the place i was born. it's why i know i will never understand america. i refuse to move elsewhere to 'find myself.' i have always known who i was.