chapter 20

New YorkThe train left on time and we alighted at Grand Central Station. Yes, we were in New York—the Big Apple, the first capital of the U.S., the city that never sleeps, nicknamed Metropolis by day and Gotham by night, the beloved muse for so many writers, formerly New Amsterdam before the British renamed it after the Duke of York. It gave us a wet welcome.It was raining and we thought it made sense to buy an umbrella. The umbrellas we had brought from India were safe in our suitcases, like our gloves. There was a Black man selling umbrellas at the entrance and while waiting for the cab, we bought one. ‘Five dollars,’ he said. Arpitha selected a card from among the many hanging down her wrist, but the man said, ‘No, ma’am, cash, please. We are poor people.’ He said this without a trace of self-pity. I was moved, and delighted. Moved by his response and delighted I could finally use the cash I had with me. Amar had given me notes of different denominations during his last visit and I hadn’t been able to use any, for the card holders always managed to get in first.I whipped out my wallet and gave him five dollars. And he gave me a million-dollar smile, dazzling white teeth and all. As we got into the cab, I saw a policeman hustle him off. Unperturbed, he gathered his Chinese-made umbrellas in a box and shuffled away. Clearly there was precarious livelihood here too but there was a dignity to him that touched me.We got a taste of proper urban living in New York—busy roads, bustling people, cosmopolitan crowds, towering skyscrapers, colourfully lit up streets, commercial areas, the yellow taxi … But what got my goat was the iconic but totally confusing New York City subway. It’s a great way to get around, or so it’s touted, but for me it was all about playing Mary’s little lamb to my tech-savvy son and daughter-in-law.We started with the good old Uber, though, taking one from the station to Harrison in New Jersey where Amar was waiting for us in a comfortable suite at, well, Comfort Suites. Why doesn’t some eccentric businessman give names like ‘Cramped Spaces’, ‘Intolerable Inn’, ‘Dismal Dungeon’ or ‘Hellish Hovel’ to their posh hotel chains? It would provide the charm of suspense and excitement to the process of selecting hotel accommodation.My first subway experience was the train journey from New Jersey to Penn station that afternoon. Amar did his usual peering into the phone to get touching results. We walked up two flights of steps to reach the sleek platform. A train had just pulled in and we got into one of its cars.‘We get off at Penn station,’ Amar said as we got in. ‘And I’m getting off with you.’ Pen, Pencil, Gift-wrap Paper or Penpwppepowepne, nothing mattered as long as I could alight with him. These subway trains made me nervous. The train started almost immediately and I realised you had to be very alert and agile if you had to board and get off at the right stations. That thought raised my BP, or, rather, made it normal for I have low BP. The crowded train soon went subterranean and we stood, hanging on to the straps, stress levels rising, nothing but darkness outside, stuck with a lot of unsmiling people.At the first stop, I asked a dour man of Indian origin, who stood nearby, what station it was.‘Sshh!’ he put a finger to his lips like a stern school marm, pointing to a sign that said, ‘Silent’. I hadn’t realised this was a silent compartment and I went red with embarrassment. The stuffed shirt looked smug; his good deed for the day was done and dusted. He strutted to an exit, all ready to be the first to alight at the next stop.A sympathetic glance from an American man standing across made me feel better. But I felt best when the train stopped and the Indian found, to his chagrin, that the platform was on the other side. He rushed to the opposite exit that already had a lot of people waiting, caught his bag on something and caught my eye when he exclaimed, ‘What the…!’ I put my finger to my lips. He was the last to get off, lips set in a grim line. The quiet American winked.At the station, we hovered around Amar who was figuring out which exit to take, since every exit led to a different street, when a bustling Indian man shouted at us to get out of his way in Hindi—‘Hato, hato!’ Two rude people in one afternoon, and both Indians.Getting out into the right street and with the rain, our faithful friend, for company, we took just five minutes to walk from Penn to the Empire State Building, in effect, the New York Building, for Empire State is yet another nickname of NY.Willis Tower might be taller than the Empire State Building, but the latter, with its individualistic, elegant design—at least as elegant as any skyscraper can be—and iconic status, is in a class of its own.When someone was asked to say three words about the Empire State Building, pat came the answer, ‘Tallest building, America, King Kong.’ Wrong on a couple of counts and exceeded the word limit too. It’s no longer the tallest building and is in the U.S., not a vague America. The third choice was the most revealing. King Kong is a 1933 film, yet the image of the giant gorilla going up the Empire State Building has been passed down from generation to generation. People remember the airplanes shooting down the fictitious King Kong, but the tragic actual crashing of a U.S. bomber plane into the 79th floor at the end of World War II was recalled only when 9/11 happened. Such is the defining power of cinema.The queue at the entrance wasn’t as long as the one to get into Willis Tower—the height of a building probably determines the length of the queue—but it included a lot of Indians. We found our fellow countrymen at all the key touristy spots—Willis Tower, Niagara Falls, Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Boston’s Aquarium—but hardly any at the museums or on university tours. Food for thought, that.Clearing security, we were soon in the super-fast elevator that whooshed us into the glass-enclosed observation deck on the 86th floor of this 102-storied skyscraper. As we got off, I heard someone say, ‘You can see five U.S. states if the sky is clear.’‘Ha! You’d be lucky to see the state of your nose,’ I retorted under my breath, for it was foggy outside. But I was mistaken. If it was a drizzle that had lent mystery to the view from Willis, the misty rain and the accompanying fog made this one out of the world. The fog kept changing shape, enticing the skyscrapers around to play hide and seek with us and making the city that suffers from insomnia look quite dreamy. The Hudson River in the distance appeared to say, ‘Now you see me, now you don’t’, and drew us into this enthralling game. I looked for and finally spotted the attractive Chrysler Building with which the Empire State Building had been engaged in a storey-to-storey battle for the title of the tallest building.Satiated, we turned to pick up a few souvenirs. The Black man who was billing the items, beamed at us. ‘Do you like Sushmita Sen?’I thought I hadn’t heard right. He drawled and drooled, ‘Sushmita Sen, the Indian beauty,’ he added an enthusiastic nod.Amazed, I nodded too, and he got so lost in thoughts of her he ended up billing us twice for the same items. But his error didn’t set off any electronic alarm. It was the very human Arpitha who discovered the mistake and he apologised as profusely as if Arpitha was Sushmita herself.‘It’s time for Times Square,’ said Amar. By the time we left the Empire State Building, it was late evening, and as we walked towards Times Square, I felt as if Wisconsin was light years away. We had stepped into a bright new world of noise, crowds, neon lights, colourful billboards, street performers, theatres, restaurants, shops … and it still rained.‘Hey, look who’s here,’ VK exclaimed and whom did we see reclining nonchalantly against two waste disposal bins on the roadside but a Donald Trump lookalike—orange face, yellow whipped-up hair, and that typical disgruntled expression. The well-fed figure wore a fancy suit with a striped tie, and beside him an open volume of Hillary Clinton’s memoir, What Happened, was propped up. There was a tumbler near it labelled ‘Wall Fund’. What a cool way to beg! We dropped a couple of notes in; the novel method deserved a reward. I was struck by the self-respect with which people requested charity in the U.S. There is no one persistently scratching your elbow, tugging at your sleeve or bag, chanting ‘Give, give’ as it happens in India. Contribution is voluntary. People dress up, perform or play music, some just walk about carrying placards that announce a heart-tugging, ‘I am hungry.’ And you give.In the beginning it was enjoyable—the feel of being in Times Square in the mild fog and drizzle—but after a bit, the chill seeped into my bones.‘Any place where we can find shelter?’ I asked Amar, hugging my arms.‘How about there? Or there?’ Amar gestured to the left. And, believe it or not, there they were, Madame Tussauds and Ripley’s, practically next door to each other.‘Ripley’s, of course.’ I was excited, not feeling the cold any longer. Who wants to see wax models when an unbelievable world beckoned? Familiar with Ripley’s ‘Believe it or Not’ offerings, I had always been fascinated by the man who had been voted more popular than President Roosevelt by The New York Times and who holds the record for receiving the most letters in history. VK must come a close second; I wrote him any number.One of my favourite Ripley cartoons is of the Chinese American baby born the day of Lindberg’s trans-Atlantic flight and named by his parents, One Long Hop. Whether he turned into a compulsive flyer, long jumper or a frog is anyone’s guess. Robert Ripley had a huge following, though many chose to be sceptical of his claims and called him, ‘The Biggest Liar in the World’. He wore the title with pride, secure in the knowledge that he was right.The tickets to enter Ripley’s were a rip off, but you have to pay through the nose to see the man with the golden one. We spent the next hour in the odditorium, gaping at a car tyre gorilla, a car parts Captain America, shrunken heads, peculiar skeletons, a two-headed sheep, a cow with six legs, a man with a forked tongue and similar bizarre exhibits. We entered the black hole with screaming children for company, walked on water, stood near the tallest man, sat with a Native American and a long-necked Burmese woman, and gazed in ghoulish wonder at ‘The Criminal Mind’—half the head of an eighteenth century French criminal, preserved, so the caption said, ‘Because a criminal mind is a terrible thing to waste.’At the torture chamber, Amar and VK got transformed into excited ten-year-olds, examining cruel instruments of torture like The Iron Maiden we had only read about. They ‘enjoyed’ the experience of being in the pillory and wearing the heavy chains and metal helmets that had entwined and encased condemned prisoners in medieval times. Who would have imagined they harboured these ghoulish aspirations.‘Arpitha, where do we put our heads?’ I asked, feeling left out.‘There, Aunty.’ She pointed to a couple of pickled heads. We promptly stuck our heads into empty jars kept near them so it looked like our heads were pickled too. Tickled by the pickled experience, we took pictures to frighten the wits out of friends.But what was Marilyn Monroe’s driving licence doing at Ripley’s? Maybe Ripley wished to say, ‘Believe it or not, ladies and gentlemen, blondes can drive, and here’s proof.’Once we had our fill of extraordinary, jaw-dropping stuff, we felt the need to get our jaws working and fill our hungry stomachs. It was still drizzling as we walked along Broadway and came to Hard Rock Café.Hard Rock blazed a name board with ‘Love All Serve All’ painted below it. Some tennis aficionado must have thought up that motto. When the café is closed, they probably changed it to, ‘Service Over. Love All.’‘How about a taste of Hard Rock?’ Amar asked.‘Tough to digest,’ VK grinned. ‘But, why not?’‘Hey, the Beatles,’ I exclaimed, pleased to see the picture of my favourite rock band amongst the rock and roll memorabilia mounted on the walls while we waited to be allowed in. A young man soon arrived to lead us to our table to the accompaniment of ear-blasting rock music.‘Part of the ambience of Hard Rock.’ Amar looked apologetically at VK, but VK was already shaking his head to the beat. He has strange taste in music that ranges from soothing classical stuff to the hardest rock composed specifically to take your head apart.We couldn’t hear one another talk but managed to place our order. I had a bad throat and wanted hot water.‘No. This is Hard Rock Café,’ VK said as if it explained all.‘You won’t get it here,’ Arpitha clarified in words of one syllable. She added, ‘No one asks for hot water, Aunty.’‘No one drinks it,’ Amar added. ‘Ask for normal water, room temperature.’But I knew what that would mean. Americans have a problem with temperature as they have with size. Normal water for them is iced water and cold water is iced water with icebergs big enough to sink two Titanics floating on top.‘Hot water, please,’ I appealed to the friendly, pony-tailed chap waiting on us, to the embarrassment of all. I indicated my throat and mouthed, ‘Sore throat,’ hoping he could lip read.The dumb charade worked. He looked concerned. ‘Hot water?’ He danced a small jig as if he had stepped on hot bricks. ‘We have very hot water ready for tea. Will that do?’I nodded eagerly. He brought a jug full of boiling hot water, and guess what? Everyone at my table wanted some too to bring their iced water to normal. Ha!It was 12.30 when we returned, dog tired, having taken a bus and a cab to get back to the hotel.Arpitha was in total charge the next day, Amar staying back for some work. She had booked us on the 12.30 Statue of Liberty cruise. This left the forenoon free; so off we went by train to Penn station from where we walked to Madison Square Garden.Madison Square Garden is neither square nor a garden. Nor is it in Madison. It’s a round indoor sports arena in the heart of New York City, one of the world’s most famous stadiums, known universally for having hosted the ‘Fight of the Century’ world heavy weight championship clash between Muhammed Ali and Joe Frazier in 1971. The mutual animosity of the legendary boxers continued way beyond their boxing careers, fuelled mostly by Ali shooting his mouth off. When Frazier was asked for his comments on Ali lighting the cauldron at the 1996 games, he is believed to have snapped, ‘They should have pushed him in.’Sports fans throng MSG to watch their favourite NBA and NHL teams, other popular sports, music concerts and special events. A fascinating feature of MSG is the way the settings are changed to suit the games being hosted. An ice hockey rink is transformed into a basketball court or a boxing ring, and equally deftly gets readied for the next ice hockey game. Nothing short of magic, if you don’t know how it is done.To our huge disappointment, we had to settle for a cursory look from the outside since it was getting prepared for the graduation ceremony of the students of one of the CUNY (City University of New York) colleges. A few students in their purple gowns bustled about.‘Can’t we take just one glimpse of the concave ceiling of MSG?’ I wanted to peer in. I had heard so much about the unusual panelled ceiling, the only one of its kind in the world, and the only part of the arena that stays untouched.‘Not possible, Aunty.’ Arpitha shook her head.‘I think we have to make do with looking at these students,’ VK said with a wry smile.‘And they are not even concave. Or convex. Plain shapeless in their gowns,’ I mourned as we left the place.Madison Square Garden’s loss was Central Park’s gain for we headed there to grace it with our dishevelled presence, broken umbrellas and all. It was hard to believe that this delightful urban oasis, New York’s answer to Europe’s famed public parks, was originally a muddy swamp full of rocks. Money, clean water and topsoil were poured into it. The story goes that more gunpowder was used to blast and clear out the rocks there than by soldiers during the Battle of Gettysburg.As light, wispy rain fell, we strolled under the canopy of lush, intertwining trees along the clean, winding walkways that had old street lamps lining them. Sparrows chirped on the grass. Strolling along the bridge over a lake, we saw ducks swimming lazily in the water. Holden Caulfield need not have had panic attacks obsessing over where they would go in winter, for, wherever they went, I bet they always returned like homing pigeons to Central Park in spring.‘Now for Cleopatra’s Needle,’ said VK. I hate to disappoint those who imagine this is something exotic, for the name Cleopatra promises nothing less. It is special, all right, but there is nothing glamorous about a 3,000-year-old Egyptian Obelisk that had found a home in Central Park. Its antique value cannot be disputed—it is the oldest outdoor monument in NY City.We noticed many people walking their dogs, among whom was a lady with a dog whose leg was in a plaster cast. Arpitha loves dogs and immediately went on her knees to pet it, an act guaranteed to win over any dog owner.‘I adopted this dog from a distress home,’ the lady said, smiling benignly at Arpitha. ‘I found it had a broken leg when I brought it home. She’s a sweetie, no trouble at all.’The sweetie took the cue and pooped. ‘Oh, the dear.’ The lady took it in her stride and into her gloves with the same air of performing a sacred act that I had seen in other dog lovers in America. The gloves with the crap went into a trash can. The U.S. was certainly dog’s own country. Love me, love my dog, love my dog poo.She said she was an artist who lived in an apartment close by. ‘But I’ll never put up my art on social media,’ she emphasised.We had been hunting for Shakespeare Garden that was believed to have the plants and flowers mentioned in Shakespeare’s plays. I looked forward to seeing Ophelia’s flowers—rosemary, pansy, fennel, columbine, rue, daisy, violet—but even my acute sense of smell didn’t lead us to the right place. We asked the lady who gave us very specific directions. We began to smile gratefully when she said, ‘But it’s closed now. Some trees are being trimmed.’‘Really?’ VK’s face fell.‘Yes,’ she beamed. ‘Very unfortunate; I’m so sorry. For this is the right time. Spring is when it’s at its best—lush, lively, lovely,’ she added, rubbing it in.‘Bye. Have a great time.’ She resumed her walk, her dog hopping on three legs. Strange are the ways of dog lovers, they walk their injured pets for exercise.It was time to keep our date with the guide for the Statue of Liberty tour and we took an Uber to Battery Park. The Uber driver was a Pakistani—a Trump admirer who had been in the U.S. for thirty years. He pointed out the Trump hotel with the enthusiasm with which a cab driver in Mumbai had indicated the Arthur Road Jail to us and reeled off with pride the names of the celebrities it had hosted.The cabbie, a microbiologist who had given up the subject to become a failed businessman, was now driving an Uber to make ends meet.‘I’m learning to invest smartly,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll soon get back my money.’ He may have been short of cash, but he was certainly not short on optimism.VK introduced cricket into the conversation and the driver smacked his lips recalling the days when Imran Khan used to make Indian batsmen shiver. ‘Let Imran Khan become prime minister, and all will be well.’ The world is still waiting.At Battery Park we took the ferry to Liberty Island, after the mandatory security screening.‘Give me liberty or give me death,’ Patrick Henry, one of America’s founding fathers, had said in 1775. The British obliged, though grudgingly, with liberty; they didn’t want murder on their hands, but the friendly French, who are known to add a touch of class to their generous overtures, gifted something that symbolised freedom for the Americans—the Statue of Liberty. Liberty was the recurring theme all the way for us—Miss Liberty, the ferry, took us to Liberty Island at the mouth of Hudson River so we could take a close look at the Statue of Liberty, modelled on Libertas, the Roman goddess of liberty.The enthusiastic guide took us around and at the start, he had the whole pack following him, hanging on his lips, metaphorically speaking. Pointing to the statuesque statue that looked as if someone had draped a saree carelessly about her, he said, ‘Oxidation made the brown copper statue turn green.’‘Not envy,’ guffawed a visitor, and we all laughed loudly for we had been starved of levity.The guide smiled. ‘She’s tough. She’s open to the elements, and gets struck by lightning bolts regularly, but stays up there, torch and tablet intact.’ What a sport.‘Let’s go into the statue,’ the guide said and I giggled, reminded of a Woody Allen quote: ‘My love life is terrible. The last time I was inside a woman was when I visited the Statue of Liberty.’We had pedestal tickets and took the steps to reach the museum inside the statue. Everything you wish to know about the statue is there—in photos, sketches, videos and diagrams. The original 1886 torch and full-scale copper replicas of the foot and the face of the statue grabbed our attention and a few tourists grabbed the nose. Pointing to the face, the guide explained, ‘The French sculptor Bartholdi made this in the likeness of his mother, Charlotte.’‘Grim lady,’ someone grimaced.‘She doesn’t give that impression when we see her from a distance, but up close, she is rather fearsome,’ I commented, joining the touching group to caress her nose that was shinier than the rest of her face.‘That’s how most mothers are, up close.’ VK winked at Arpitha.I made a face and laughed, continuing to rub her nose.‘Are you soothing her ruffled feathers or is this also part of the Niels Bohr luck principle?’ VK asked. Now it was his turn to make a face.‘Niels Bohr, Uncle,’ Arpitha grinned, also going for the nose. ‘Everyone does it. That’s why the colour has changed. And Aunty, don’t give the wish away.’‘Same wish, anyway,’ I said. Arpitha groaned.A few tourists who had crown tickets went on to climb all the way to the top, but the rest of us spent some more time admiring the view before descending.Ellis Island situated nearby was part of the cruise deal and the ferry now took us there. It might look unassuming in terms of size but it is one of the most historically significant places in the U.S. Ellis Island, the Gateway to the New World, served as a federal immigration station from 1892 to 1954 and helped bring the American Dream to fruition for millions of hopeful immigrants.It was known earlier by self-explanatory names like Gull Island, Oyster Island and Gibbet Island before a New York merchant, Samuel Ellis, purchased it in the eighteenth century and called it Oyster Island. But when it changed hands a few times to finally become the property of the federal government, it came to be called Ellis Island, after its last private owner. Nobody could think of anything better and it remains so to date. Americans have an endearingly naive attitude towards names.The guide described all this but by then, the flock trailing him had thinned considerably. To give him credit, he was a true professional, remaining as enthusiastic as if he was Pied Piper, and to his audience of, well, just the three of us, he narrated the story of U.S. immigration as he took us around the evocative National Museum of Immigration.The experience left us introspective and quiet, but when the cruise came to an end, we didn’t forget to tip the guide handsomely as Amar had tutored us.From Battery Park we walked to Wall Street and sighted the iconic Charging Bull. We’d have loved to charge towards it but didn’t, out of fear for our lives—we were on the other side of the busy road. Also, there was an admiring crowd around it. The Charging Bull is as much of a tourist attraction as the Statue of Liberty. Even from a distance, it exuded the raw energy and belligerence its Italian American sculptor, Arturo di Modica, meant it to radiate. It appeared to be almost stumbling over in its eagerness to butt someone.The Charging Bull was sculpted by Modica to represent the resilience and strength of Americans and up their spirits after the 1987 Black Monday Wall Street crash. He took two years over it, and by the time it was completed, the Americans had recovered their confidence, and probably some of their money, but they embraced the Charging Bull wholeheartedly as a symbol of their prosperity and optimism. We had heard that certain intimate parts of it were constantly rubbed by people so that luck would rub off on them, but Arpitha and I weren’t able to, and might have hesitated to apply the Niels Bohr principle this time, to VK’s great relief.‘All bull!’ he commented.Facing the Charging Bull was the bronze statue of The Fearless Girl surrounded by a group clicking selfies with it. The work of the American sculptor Kristen Visbal, The Fearless Girl adopted a fearless stance, head back, chin up, arms akimbo, appearing to throw a challenge to the Charging Bull. The statue, regarded as the symbol of women’s empowerment, had been placed there the day before International Women’s Day in 2017. We learnt later that after protests, especially from Modica who felt the spunky girl trivialised his creation, it was shifted in November 2018 to its present location outside the New York Stock Exchange.Our visit to One World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan, NY City, was a sobering experience. It was impossible not to recall the disturbing images of the planes crashing into the twin towers of the World Trade Center as we approached the impressive structure that stood in their place. It was overwhelming, to be actually standing where a horrific, epic and history-changing disaster had occurred.It filled us with a deep sense of awe, that Ground Zero, the 16 acre 70 foot deep hole of rubble, dust, and mangled steel that the attacks had reduced the twin towers to, had been replaced by this sleek building that is now the tallest in the US, and the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. If the Charging Bull is a tribute to the optimism and prosperity of the Americans, the august Memorial Tower, the serene water-themed 9/11 memorial with the names of the dead inscribed on its bronze parapets, and the remarkable museum underground, with the artefacts of the tragedy, are a testimony to their indefatigable spirit and a fitting answer to the destructive intent of the perpetrators of 9/11.We crossed over to look for the subway station and discovered, to our embarrassment, that it was actually in The Oculus, the mammoth white structure adjacent to the Ground Zero memorial. We hurriedly re-crossed and entered the intriguing building that resembled a huge white bird about to take wing or prepare to touch down.‘Oculus’ is Latin for ‘eye’ and in architecture refers to an eye-like opening into the sky. The Oculus, the World Trade Center Transportation Hub, takes its name from the row of skylights along the spine of its roof, and its standout design is unique in the neighbourhood of mostly rectangular skyscrapers. Architect Santiago Calatrava wanted to create something that would be ‘a witness of belief that we can overcome this tragedy’ and a gift ‘given to the community’.We entered this ‘gift’ and were instantly reduced to insignificance in its awe-inspiringly colossal, ribbed and pristine white interior. It was dotted with up end shops and we window-shopped from a respectable distance before we took the escalator down to the subway station and I felt lost and jittery immediately. But Arpitha was there and she managed the show. We took the right train to New Jersey, and then a cab to our hotel where Amar was waiting for us, looking a little anxious.Stations in the U.S. had this effect on me, and later VK confessed that was how he had felt too. If we hadn’t had Amar or Arpitha with us during our train journeys, I’m sure our nervous behaviour and suspicious movements would have landed us in the police station multiple times.I remember at one subway station we had to insert the ticket into a slot before we could enter the platform. The machine grabbed it from me. Alarmed, I snatched it back. Amar laughed and explained that the machine would pull the ticket in and return it, not to worry. At another station, we had to swipe the pass for the barricade to open, but when I swiped, a message saying, ‘You are too slow’, popped up. ‘All right, Usain Bolt,’ I muttered and after a few frustrating attempts, my effort finally met with its stringent standards.VK was all eager to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Met for short, the next day and so was I. Imagine going to New York and not managing a visit to the largest and the best-known museum in the U.S. But that was what happened. I woke up with a bad back and aching legs. And a visit to a museum needs indefatigable legs. The spirit was willing but the limbs were weak.Arpitha wasn’t feeling too great either, so she stayed back too, but booked a cab for her father-in-law to the Met, with strict instructions that he should call her if he needed anything. It was prepaid, so VK just had to alight in style once he reached. VK left with a spring in his step. There’s no place he loves being in more than a museum.This time the Uber driver was Mexican, a very contented Mexican too, who said his name was Junior. And VK, as usual, struck up a conversation with him that lasted the half hour it took to reach the museum. Junior confessed to him that he had run away as a teenager to the U.S. Had he stayed back in Mexico, he’d have had to join either the army or the mafia. He couldn’t make it to the army, and probably decided not to give the mafia a shot; so he came to the U.S., and realised he had made the right choice. He had three flats in Mexico, two kids, one wife and one home in the U.S.Is it true, he asked VK, that Indians had ‘arranged marriages’? What is caste and what role did it play in marriage? VK said he struggled to give easy-to-understand explanations of these quintessentially Indian practices, taking some time over ‘compatibility of star signs’, a concept that intrigued Junior. As they parted at the Met, Junior smiled at VK and told him he loved Indian food. VK said he took that as a comment not on Indian food but on arranged marriages.Amar had his next interview—the final one—that day. Now that Bed and Bath were done, it had to be the Beyond bit. I wondered what lay beyond Beyond. He returned after the interview with a broad smile and the mandatory, ‘It was okay.’ I remembered my wish and hoped he’d make it.VK hadn’t called at all, and at 6.30, Amar and I left to pick him up from the Met. I stuck to Amar like a leech during the two train journeys that were followed by two cab rides, and I stepped into the famous yellow cab for the first time; what a thrill.At the Met, I gave a call to VK who sounded almost disappointed we had reached and was quite reluctant to come out. We sat on the steps outside, and waited, quite certain we were going to miss each other. Everything looked set for a scene of ‘Where are you?’ ‘I’m here!’ ‘Where is here?’ But, miracles happen. He came out, was spotted and we met, right in front of the Met. He appeared full of beans, though he had had only an apple the entire day. Amar insisted on a proper dinner and we took another yellow cab to a peaceful Indian restaurant, ‘Om’, before heading home, or, rather, the hotel.We were taking the bus early next morning for Boston. Before we left the room, I snatched the pen on the table and shoved it into my bag. ‘A souvenir,’ I explained to VK whose eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. ‘Look, it’s got “Comfort Suites” branded on it,’ I comforted him.‘Put it back,’ he objected, reacting as if I was showing distinct signs of kleptomania.‘What’s the big deal?’ I countered. ‘It’s only a pen.’‘I’m sure it is, for us. For them it’s part of the decor of the room.’‘Look what else it says on it.’ I read out, ‘“Rested. Set. Go.” The pen has rested enough. Get set to go. I’m sure the hotel wants us to take it.’I shoved the pen deeper into my bag, adding, ‘Know what? Because of your octopus drama, I forgot to take the pen from Candlewood. I love to collect souvenirs from every place we stay.’VK gave a telling snort. ‘It’s good chairs and tables are difficult to spirit away.’