atharva's internet place

I got off after a fifteen-something hour long flight from a different side of the globe. After clarifying with an immigration officer that yes I'm a Tourist in your country and even though I may come as a suspiciously single-unit youthful foreigner I intend not to overstay my welcome illegally. I walked out into the departures section to see my brother who was huddled in a corner talking business to his laptop, before I realised he is plugged in through his glasses which have earphones, mic and the like.

I waited there and took in the sights of the new country I found myself in for the first time. This is America, I thought incorrectly, as I were to learn later that New York City is not America by any stretch.

When my brother's business call concluded, he took me to the sidewalk henceforth pavement outside.

“You have too many big bags, let's just take an Uber.” “There's no Uber pick-up zone?” “Cross the road.”

We cross the road.

“Ubers are expensive here. It's almost $100 to get to home. But it's fine.”

André, our Guyanese Uber driver was approximately twice my size, and hauled his big car (an oxymoron in The States) confidently within legal limits. He picked up his phone and started yelling furiously, all variations of the same three sentences drawn over ten minutes.

“You got the wrong guy! I ain't payin' anything to you. Talk to my employer!”

After he cut the phone, he addressed us with a fury that was not directed at us. That's the Department of Finance, they are asking me to pay for some old parking tickets. I never parked illegally. They are after the wrong guy. This ain't my car, so my employer should be dealing with this anyway.

With heightened fury in his words, he continued.

In this city, they always go after the poor guys! The little guys! Never after the rich people!

You just landed here for the first time, yeah? Over here, the authorities are only tryna Fandangle you. They only Fandangling people here, that's all they do, sternly giving Fandangle's consonants its well-deserved stress.

You're glad you got your brother here to guide you. He would know how they are always trying to get your money.

“Yeah, the authorities had once tried to make my company pay for something that we didn't really have to pay for.”

“See! Look at how they Fandangle you here!” raptured our driver, cracking a smirk.

André spoke to us about his life in New York City. And how he stopped a Taiwanese family's intergenerational quarrel by interrupting the daughter in the shotgun seat in fluent Mandarin, which he learnt as a child living in Taiwan. They could not fathom a black man speaking their language fluently. But our guy André studied in Taiwan, and brought the receipts, by dialing his mentor there. He finally got free dinner and drinks at their place.

He talked about Bollywood songs and movies. Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. He knew because Bollywood was a thing in Guyana. He told us that there were a section of Guyanese people that try to be Hindu but aren't actually Hindu, just a bunch of poseurs. They can't really understand Hindi, but they worship Indian pop culture.

Indians, Bangladeshis, Chinese, all the immigrants. They are all smart people. You all know how it goes around here.

By this part of our conversation, the opaque, towering structures of Manhattan were swirling around us.