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"You’re going to New York?! I am so jealous."
"You are so lucky."
"Three months in the United states? Wow!"
These were some of the excited reactions I received, as I planned my three month-long, purely work trip to the US.
I tried to explain that it was purely for educational purposes, but they wouldn't stop screaming in delight at how lucky I was. For the people around me, it was a dream come true; a dream full of fascination and glory.
Despite the hoopla and fuss, I landed in New York with minimal expectations; just a hidden corner in my heart bustling with a tourist's excitement to witness the city.
After a long ordeal at the airport, tired and exhausted, I finally arrived at the small room that I had rented for the month. I will skip details of the room’s demeanour. At that point, I was happy enough to have a place where I could rest my head. I was already missing Karachi and my own comfortable bed.
The next day, I set out to find my workplace with a fresh resolve and motivation in my heart. As I stepped into the train, the mic announced:
“Dear customers, your safety is our primary concern…”.
My heart swelled with relief. This was a welcome change.
“…please beware of pickpockets as you ride the MTA vehicle. Have a safe journey!”
My heart skipped a beat. A dream come true indeed, but maybe my worst one?
After much ado, I got off the train, walked for miles towards and within subways, to finally discover that I was lost. Frustrated and tired, I took a taxi which cost me a good 50 dollars to reach the hospital. Ouch. I badly missed the auto-rickshaw I took from right under my home to take me wherever in the city I wanted, all for under Rs 200, if haggled right.
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Then came work, where, on my first day, I felt like an outsider among a sea of unknown faces. I felt my miniscule existence crumbling in the vast galaxy of stars. I was a nobody. I felt like I had a long month of struggle ahead to prove myself.
The people here are friendly and nice, but a certain and very large amount of different. I sensed I had to bridge a huge gap before I could fit in. I wasn’t looking forward to it. But, I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
Finally, after a day of arduous mental exertion of desiring approval, I went home to find an empty fridge. 'Oh, let's order McDonalds,' my mind buzzed in relief. 'Wait. It’s not halal,' my subconscious nudged.
Distraught and hungry, I finally grabbed a bag of open chips from the plane and decided to hit the sack. Mouth-watering images of my mum’s home-cooked food tortured my mind.
I had had enough for the day. I missed Pakistan. And this was just the first day.
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Things moved on. Progress was made. New York was glorious with tall buildings and diverse individuals. I became part of their robotic cult, waking up at six in the morning; going to work; coming back; eating whatever was available; having lots of coke and going to sleep.
Life here took a different dimension altogether. There was no maid to do your chores, you had to mop the floors yourself. There was no fast-food joint at every corner of the city, and you had to travel for miles to find a semi-decent place. For someone like me who wrote strong feminist blogs on how men in Pakistan are scary and keep ogling you, a ride on the NY subway after the sunset was reason enough to redefine the word scary itself.
My entire month was a toned down reflection of my first day; the search for halal food, the desire to fit in, the outsider tag, the long arduous walks and the torturous pangs of missing home. All this was – is my life. The struggle still continues.
For others, I may have been living a tourist's dream. But truth be told, I felt like Jamshaid of Jackson Heights – lured into the glitter of a jewel only to find out it was not real.
I could completely identify with Jamshaid's struggle of a desi with big dreams; dreams that take you to their end only for you to realise that there is no place like where you started from.
See: Love and longing in 'Jackson Heights'
I guess it won't be so bad after a while when things ease out, friends are made, and halal food finds its way through. But that doesn’t change the fact that when it comes to luxury and quality of life, there is no place like Pakistan, no place like home!
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—Photos by author
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