Page 74 of One Indian Girl
‘I know nothing about Hong Kong.’
‘Lots of Chinese people,’ Jon said. ‘Seems like a fun place from what I have seen during my travels.’
‘I already submitted my resignation. I sent you an email.’
‘I have already deleted it,’ Jon said, clicking a button on his computer mouse.
Both of us smiled.
‘Thank you, Jon. Thank you so much.’
‘I will call Neel. He is the partner there. You know him?’ Jon said.
‘Not much. He did a session during associate training, right?’
‘Smart guy. I will talk to him. How soon can you move?’
‘When is the next flight?’
17
‘JFK, please,’ I said to the cab driver.
I sat in a yellow cab to the airport. It was almost 5 in the evening. Finally, the movers had left and I had surrendered the keys to my Tribeca apartment.
My new job offer had come through, with only one brief call with Neel as an interview. Given Jon’s recommendation, Neel said this was a formality and more a ‘welcome to Hong Kong’ call. Human Resources sent me a new offer. Given the high rents in Hong Kong, they added a housing allowance of 60,000 dollars a year to my base salary.
I had decided to quit and go back to West Delhi with a zero salary. Maybe I would have yielded to my mother’s badgering about getting married. I should have been serving tea and mithai in trays to prospective grooms. Instead, I had a welcome brochure from the Goldman Sachs Asia-Pacific Relocation Group in my hand. I might not have love in my life, but I did have Uncle Goldman Sachs taking care of me. The brochure said I would be staying at the Shangri-La Hotel in Hong Kong until I found a new apartment.
The cab passed the Tweed Courthouse near the Manhattan side entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. From a distance, I could see the skyscrapers of the Financial District. Even though I had wanted to get out of New York at the earliest, I felt a tinge of regret. I had become attached to the city of my firsts—first job, first boyfriend, first independent home and, well, first break-up.
‘Could you stop here for a second, please?’ I said as the cab reached the bridge.
The driver slowed down the cab.
‘Can I walk across the bridge? You can meet me on the other side.’
‘The entire bridge? That will take you half an hour.’
‘I have time. Can I have your number?’
He gave me a business card with his name and number.
‘I am gonna have to keep the meter on,’ he said, chewing gum.
‘Sure, I will call you when I reach the other side.’
I stepped out of the taxi and climbed the steps up to the pedestrian walkway of the bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge is an old cable-stayed-cum-suspension bridge in New York City. Completed in 1883, it connects the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn by spanning the East River. Around a mile long, it has a pedestrian walkway in the middle, above the automobile lanes.
If you have seen movies set in New York, you would have probably seen scenic shots of the Brooklyn Bridge. I began my walk. The orange-coloured sky at sunset and Manhattan’s skyline on my left seemed like a perfect last memory of the city. The peak hour traffic passed below me. I noticed that the bridge with its trusses resembled the Howrah Bridge in Kolkata.
Pain singed my heart; Kolkata reminded me of Debu. I had told myself to not think of him. That’s what sucks about love. It takes away your control over your thoughts. Any trigger, anything that somehow could be connected back to Debu, would spark a fire of memories inside me. I just wanted my last walk in the city to be peaceful. Alas, no such luck. I approached Brooklyn. I wondered if Debu would be home already. Or if the tattooed white girl would be waiting for him. One of his roommates had told Avinash, who then told me, that the girl was a waitress at Chipotle, a Mexican fast-food chain. I didn’t ask further. I wondered if he loved her so much that he never thought of me. Or did he miss me?
Focus on the walk, breathe, I told myself. Why doesn’t the brain listen once in a while? Why can’t it just take in the beautiful view? Isn’t it the brain’s job to figure out a way to avoid pain? So why is it only generating thoughts that kill me?
I reached the midpoint of the bridge. Tourists took pictures of the panoramic scenery. I took out my phone to take a last snapshot of New York as well. After I clicked the picture, I opened my WhatsApp. I don’t know why I did it, but I checked Debu’s profile. He had the same picture as always, of him posing next to The Lake, in Central Park. He was online. I took a deep breath, typed ‘Hi’ and pressed send.
He read my message but didn’t respond. I didn’t want him to think I was chasing him again. I typed another message.
