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Kiana

Friday, 9 December 2022 Josie’s Cafe, Downtown Chicago

‘The good thing about bad times is that they pass. And the bad thing about good times is that they pass as well.’

M aybe adulting is realizing that you’re the one constant in your life, your truest best friend until the end of time. The people around you will grow, they will face their own battles, and sometimes, they won’t be there when you need them the most. And while all you might crave in a moment like that is a simple hug, you might not get one. Instead, you’ll find comfort in the most unexpected of places—an old pillow, a soft toy from your childhood, or even the fleeting warmth of a dog brushing past your legs.

Because maybe, just maybe, adulthood is also about accepting this truth: that you can carry pieces of home with you, but you may never get to fully return to it again.

When I step out of Willis Tower, which is the tallest skyscraper in the city and where my office is located, the wind hits me like a million pins piercing my nose and forehead, the only uncovered parts of my body. The rest of me is bundled up in an upmarket black trench coat, a grey muffler and cap, grey gloves, a white sweater, black pants and black boots.

The weather app on my smartphone says that it’s a minus 8 today! No wonder it’s fucking freezing, and it’s only going to get worse. Apparently, it’s supposed to snow around Christmas.

As I lengthen my steps to quickly get out of the cold, I come across a Pottery Barn store with a window display of a baby’s nursery. The whole setup is monochromatic, with every single piece of the display being in varying shades of brown—from the lightest beige to the darkest coffee-brown. I take a look at myself and realize that I’m dressed in the perfect monochromatic palette as well, just like the entire city is during winter.

Back in India, no matter the season, the cities are always green and colourful. So are the people’s clothes and their moods. And when it comes to baby nurseries, they’re a riot of colours, except of course the ones done up by those who have deep pockets and can afford to pursue their obsession with everything Western. But in India, these muted and dull colours that are so popular in the West are called ‘English’ colours!

The beginning of December is undoubtedly one of the best times to be in Chicago, before it gets extremely cold and the sun disappears for days in a row. When I was still in India, I never really understood the emotions behind the famous Beatles’ song ‘Here Comes the Sun’. But when I moved to the other side of the world for my graduation about nine years back, I finally got the lyrics of the song like never before.

If you’ve grown up in India like I did—I grew up in the lanes of Chandi Chowk in old Delhi—and watched reruns of a lot of American sitcoms, especially Friends , then you must’ve assumed by now that I’m headed to a coffee shop, like Central Perk, after work. Because that’s just how dreamy the life of working professionals in America is for the aspiring middle-class Indians who are desperate to win a lottery to the States. Oh yes! There’s even a visa temple in my country that promises hassle-free visas, by God’s grace, to its many devotees.

Except that most people in America actually order takeaway coffee that they then drink alone. They don’t necessarily have a group of six best friends who’d die for each other. American television told us the most beautiful lie, just like how social media paints a perfect picture of things in today’s day and age.

This is my morning routine though, picking up a takeaway cup of coffee from Josie’s café, which is home , and then going to work. That’s where I’m headed right now, by the way.

Zayn, the most senior barista at Josie’s, is my only family in the entire city. Unlike everyone else here, I don’t have to make an appointment to see him. Yes, in the US, you have to book a spot in people’s calendars if you wish to meet them, even neighbours and old friends at times. It was a huge shock for me when I first moved here because back in Delhi, I would just give a call to my friends and in a matter of minutes, all of them would turn up on my terrace for an impromptu pizza party. We always fancied pizza because our moms treated it as junk food and didn’t let us have it regularly. They would mostly feed us parathas in the morning before school and roll up some veggies inside rotis and put them in our tiffin boxes. If we behaved well for a week, we were rewarded with tiffin-wali Maggi, another junk food item that Indian mothers dished out sparingly. But that was a different kind of life altogether. Once I moved here, I found myself microwaving frozen pizza for dinner at least thrice a week. Now, however, I crave parathas, but I’m too lazy to cook them for myself.

Christmas is roughly two weeks from now, which means that the smell of hot chocolate is everywhere. It’s a smell that Americans find very comforting, for it evokes memories of being home . I take a deep breath as I walk through downtown Chicago—that’s where I live and work—feeling like one of the protagonists from the Hollywood movies I grew up watching. Each step that I take is full of pride. Each step proclaims, ‘I’ve made it big!’ Because my promotion at Beta, the biggest software company in the world, ensures that I have a six-figure salary now. I give myself a virtual pat on the back.

I really think December is the best time of the year. I visit my uncle Joginder, aka Joe, in San Francisco every year during the Christmas-New Year holidays, and my aunt Manpreet, aka Mannie, feeds me super delicious home-cooked meals like my mother once did. When I’m there with them, the smell of ginger tea and parathas made in ghee fills the air, and my heart too. Uncle Joe and Aunt Mannie are my only family on this side of the world.

Back to Zayn though, he expects me at the café every day at 6:30 p.m. sharp. It’s been so for about four years now. After completing my course at New York University, when I joined Beta and moved to Chicago, I had to find something to fill my lonely weekends with because I barely knew anyone in the city. Most of my classmates and roommates had scattered across the States. I often planned touristy escapades for myself, like visiting the Navy Pier, Lake Michigan, Devon Street (which is Chicago’s mini India), the museum, the opera and the library. The best, however, was booking a Broadway show every weekend. The shows weren’t as grand as the ones I watched in New York, but they were good enough to keep pulling me back in week after week. That’s where I met Zayn, at a local Broadway show on a Saturday. We were seated next to each other, and we ended up speaking to each other at length that night. From discussing the latest piece of bullshit pop music to debating an art exhibit of Van Gogh’s work, we connected at various levels. Zayn is a struggling sound producer who works at Josie’s to pay his bills. He also writes and performs poetry and experiments with multiple forms of artistic expression. We’re both immigrants, so we’re kind of sailing in the same boat and it’s life’s circumstances that have kept us glued to each other.

I used to walk back to my apartment after work every day and feel miserable about spending the evening alone. That’s when Emma, my colleague at work, suggested that I become a regular at a café. That’s what most Americans do, she said. So, I chose Josie’s, Zayn’s place. Emma also suggested that I get a cat or a dog, another very American thing to do. She mocked me last year, on my birthday no less, for not being in a relationship with someone. She said, ‘Most Americans would’ve been married at least once and have had multiple children by now. You’re not even in a live-in relationship with someone!’

Now, this may be absolutely incorrect, if you were to google the data and check, but Emma is the most American person I’ve met. So, I mostly take her word for it. In fact, Emma is so American that she thinks India is still a land of snake charmers; that zombies are real, as is everything they show in Star Wars ; that private ownership of guns is absolutely justified as they fuel the economy; that the end of the world is almost here; and that wearing masks had to be a personal choice and not a mandate by the government during the pandemic. The truth is that fools exist everywhere. I used to think that it was only India that was full of stupid people who believed their sins could be washed away in the holy waters of the Ganga—why commit a sin in the first place, I used to wonder—but then I met Emma, in America.

As I walk, I witness the sun set over the riverwalk, painting a breathtaking scene against a cityscape of softly glowing high-rises and the shimmering Chicago River. Chicago in the golden hour holds all my heart, and even after so many years of walking this path every day, it has not lost its magic.

When I reach Josie’s and push open the beautifully decorated white doors of the café, the heavenly smell of cinnamon, vanilla, coffee, caramel and chocolate, all mixed together just perfectly, welcomes me. Josie’s is a quaint, charming café, complete with French-inspired vintage interiors and outdoor seating. Adorned with wreaths, holly leaves, tinsel and fairy lights, it transforms into a warm, festive haven in the days leading up to Christmas. And when you enter the café, it’s like stepping into a scene straight out of a fairy tale. The whole place is a winter wonderland that pushes everyone to revel in the magic of the season. After all, it’s the most wonderful time of the year in the West.

Do I believe in the magic of Christmas or in fairy tales like most humans do? Absolutely not. There is no magic. Just a plain, rather meaningless existence. And a never-ending fight for survival. At least that’s how my life has been. Don’t judge me just yet; you don’t know my story.

I see Zayn busy prepping two cups of coffee, looking very intently at both the cups, almost as if they were his exes. He looks at me as I close the door behind me and smiles. Zayn is taller than most men I know, and his face glows with empathy and kindness. He’s also got the most captivating smile. What I like most about him is that he fully embraces his identity as a gay man and takes pride in it. He doesn’t shy away from owning who he is. He moved to the US from Nigeria not just to follow his artistic passions, but also to escape the conservative society there that shuns homosexuals.

And that’s one thing I love about America: it’s the land of second chances. Are you bankrupt? No problem. The government’s got you covered if you’re a citizen. Are you divorced or recently single? Go ahead and find yourself another person to date and fall in love with. You failed at your job? Just get another job or try something else. Nobody gives a damn about your personal life really. Back in India, though, your family interferes so much in everything that your life is hardly yours. Ask me!

Seeing me walk towards him, Zayn immediately asks one of his fellow baristas, a charming brown girl, to take care of the orders. This place, and especially his presence, instantly lift my mood and spirits.

‘Left one is a vegan almond milk cappuccino for table 7 and the right one is a regular milk cappuccino for table 11. Got it?’ he asks, staring at the girl intently.

‘Are you sure?’ the girl asks, sounding doubtful.

‘Almost sure,’ he replies and winks playfully, pointing towards the side where the customers are seated.

‘Coffee or wine?’ he asks me when I reach the counter and find that my usual seat is unoccupied.

‘Wine. It’s the weekend, Zee,’ I say, my face lighting up at the idea of having a glass of wine.

‘I had the pleasure of serving wine to Billy,’ Zayn says as he pulls out a bottle of my favourite merlot and pours it into a wine glass.

‘Billy who? You’ve never mentioned him before. Is he one of your Sunday Grindr dates?’ I ask, my brows raised in question.

‘You don’t know Billy? Billy Joel? Jeez!’ Zayn exclaims, sounding appalled.

‘Of course I do. That’s his song playing in the background, right? “Piano Man”, isn’t it? But wait, you served him wine? Tell me the whole story. Now, please!’ I demand, sounding like a child asking for candy.

‘Don’t be absurd. I dreamt about this yesterday. I served him wine, and then he asked me to play the guitar with his band in a private gig aboard a yacht in Hawaii. I said yes, and it was magical.’ Zayn sighed. It looked as if his dream guy had said yes to a marriage proposal.

‘Oh God! I can see that all those dreams that manifest the magic of Christmas have announced their annual presence!’ I tease him.

‘Oh God! I can see that all those sarcastic remarks that manifest your belief in the everything-is-doomed theory have resurfaced!’ Zayn shoots back, imitating my tone and body language like a pro mimicry artist. We bubble over with laughter.

But really, it beats me how a man my age could believe all of this! Especially a man like Zayn. I know very well that all this hoo-ha about the ‘magic’ of Christmas is something the Westerners indulge in to keep their hopes and spirits up during the harsh winter months. Wasn’t this bone-chilling cold also the reason why all those centuries ago, they sailed off to such faraway countries like mine and Zayn’s and then colonized them? The fact that we have so much sunshine around the year must have completely bowled them over. And then they looted our people not just of their natural resources but also of their belief in themselves. Isn’t that the real reason why we’re all still fascinated with the West and why I pushed myself to leave my home and come here for a better life?

‘To the magic of Christmas!’ I raise my glass of wine.

‘To the magic within,’ Zayn whispers theatrically with his hand on his heart.

‘Any plans to go back home?’ I ask as I sip my heavenly nectar.

‘Oh yes, you know it! Same place this year too—my grandmother’s home in Nigeria. Going back for the warmth, the laughter and her legendary jollof rice. What about you?’

‘Same place here as well. Heading to San Francisco to my uncle’s lavish mansion. Can’t wait to stuff myself with all the meals that Aunt Mannie’s going to make, and go road-tripping with the family.’ I fake a grin.

‘Still not going back to India? It’s been years, Kee.’ He looks at me with genuine concern in his eyes.

‘Let’s not go there, Zayn. You know I don’t like to talk about it!’ I refrain from getting into a conversation that can potentially ruin my weekend.

‘Okay, okay. Sorry, babe!’

‘No problem!’ I say and force myself to smile.

‘Family and drama go hand in hand during the holidays, right? I still remember the first time I tried explaining the concept of Secret Santa to my relatives!’ Zayn tries to divert the conversation into safer topics.

I jump right in. ‘Aunt Mannie got so upset when we did a Secret Santa because she had to get a gift for Uncle Joe and not the children. I was supposed to get a gift for Ryan. She tried to switch with me many times because Ryan wanted a scooter, and there’s no way I could’ve lugged one all the way to San Francisco.’ I roll my eyes.

‘Oh, the struggle of taking American gifts across the globe is a real deal-breaker. These fucking airlines should give us concessions on weight limits instead of ticket discounts during Christmas!’

‘True. When I was still in New York, one of my roommates got held up at the airport on her way back from India after the Christmas holidays because of suspicious baggage. She had to explain to the TSA why there were bags of spices and dried curry leaves in her suitcase. It was her Indian mother who’d put them in for her, but the TSA thought she was smuggling some exotic seasoning and leaves!’ I burst into broken laughter.

‘Smuggling spices! That’s a new one. But seriously, the best part is the joy on my grandmother’s face when I show up. That’s the real magic of Christmas.’ His eyes sparkle and I know he’s lost in a world of his own once again.

‘Couldn’t agree more. Here’s to the joy of going back home and creating more memorable holiday moments!’ I gulp down the remaining wine in my glass all at once.

‘Do you remember your first Christmas here in the US?’ Zayn asks.

‘Oh, absolutely! I was amazed by the snow. Back home, we never had any snow, let alone a white Christmas. It was only some of my rich classmates who would drive up to the hill stations who had seen snow.’ I could, if I pretended hard enough, almost feel the snow fall on my palms.

‘The first time I tasted eggnog, I thought what is this creamy magic?’ Zayn almost dances at the memory.

‘I made some biryani for a potluck in college once. While some of my American classmates loved it, some bullied me for over a year, saying I smell like curry,’ I recall.

‘Oh, I once cooked jollof rice, which, I feel, is the African version of your biryani , and my co-workers at the café I used to work at back then were like, “What’s this red spicy goodness?”’

‘We’ve both come a long way since then …’ I conclude.

‘Yeah! It’s been one hell of a ride and we’ve grown up for sure!’ Zayn agrees.

‘Back home, people just look at expats and NRIs and assume that we have the best life. They’ve no idea about the challenges and the struggles of making it here, let alone making it big! It’s like being reborn and having to start everything from zero.’ Even as I say this, I feel a sense of gratitude for my journey. ‘Zayn,’ I continue, ‘I just got promoted. I’m a senior product manager now.’

‘Wow! Congratulations, Kee! I’m so proud of you, my bae. You work at the best company, and with the best people. And now you have a six-figure salary and a job profile to be envious of! The drink’s on the house today. You can’t imagine how happy I am!’ Zayn does a little celebratory jig.

‘Thank you, Zee! You’re the first person to know this, because you’re family. You know that, right?’ I ask with a huge smile on my face.

‘Oh, yes! But think of me now. I’m still doing odd jobs to pay my bills, and I have no idea if I’ll ever become a sound producer. The last gig I did was that high school play, and then that funeral service on the church grounds. God knows when, and if, I’ll ever be Richie Rich.’ He laughs out loud.

‘You own your time, Zayn. My time is owned by my company. You have a family to go back to. I have nothing to look forward to when I retire. What will I do with truckloads of money when I will just die alone? You’re far richer than I am, trust me.’ I frown.

‘You’re being too pessimistic, missy. Why don’t you date? Why don’t you find a nice guy for yourself? You can always start your own family. What’s stopping you? Should I sign you up on Bumble?’ he offers like always.

‘I have Luna.’ I smile.

‘Oh, just shut up! You got a cat for yourself on that dumbhead Emma’s suggestion when I told you to get a dog. Dogs are man’s best friend. Didn’t they teach you that in school? Luna just doesn’t look like a friendly cat in any of the pictures you’ve shown me. She looks like a stupid soft toy.’

‘Cats are low maintenance, Zee. I can’t really invest in a relationship with a dog!’

‘You’ve got to invest in at least one meaningful relationship in your life. You can’t keep running away from it, Kee.’

‘Let’s save this discussion for another day! I’ve got to rush back home. There’s a new app launching in India tomorrow and I want to sign up as a beta tester. I’ll tell you why some other day, Zee. Bye!’

‘I just hope it isn’t another one of Emma’s stupid ideas. I really think you shouldn’t interact with her much. But wait, is it a dating app?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling.

‘Zayn, I don’t really have that many people who are interested in speaking with me. If I stop talking to Emma, you and Luna will practically be the only ones I talk to! And, of course, my boss, who talks like a robot and is, umm, kind of like the living dead. Emma feels the same.’ I pick up my bag as I get up to leave.

‘Stay away from Emma, Kee. See you later!’ Zayn says as I rush out of Josie’s.

‘Byeeeee!’

I enter my apartment just twenty minutes before the scheduled launch time of the app. I rush into the bathroom, have a quick shower and then put on a soft and comfy bathrobe. I open the refrigerator and pull out a slice of frozen pizza. I microwave it and once it’s done, I take a big bite of it as I set up my laptop on the study table. My table is next to the big glass wall that makes up one entire side of my apartment, which is on the twenty-ninth floor and overlooks the entire city. I suddenly realize that I haven’t seen any signs of Luna since I got back. I call out to her, but there’s no response. I get up, and on carefully looking around the entire apartment, I find her sitting on top of the kitchen rack. She ignores me and I ignore her. But it’s comforting to know that I’m not all alone in my apartment.

Every night before falling asleep, I somehow end up scrolling through social media. I work in Beta’s social media division, and I know the perils of the traps we’ve set up for our users. But I’m so addicted to it that I can’t help myself. I’m guilty of wasting an incredible amount of my time on social media. This, despite having read many personal development books that advise against going down the social media rabbit hole and, instead, push one to become a 4:30-a.m. club member. But I can’t bring myself to follow a single piece of advice from these books.

I even tried making a timetable, the way I used to back in school, but like every other past attempt, I failed this time too.

And I’m not as guilty about using social media as I am about stalking my ex-classmate, Asmitha. We were together in university—she’d come from IIT-D to NYU on an exchange programme and had collaborated with me on an AI assignment. I’m also ashamed to admit that it’s her life that I would’ve wanted to live in a utopian world. Asmitha fearlessly pursues entrepreneurship while having a perfect family. She has done everything right, and at the right time. She has everything I aspire to have.

Why have I been stalking her more than ever over the last few weeks? So, here’s the deal: I came across Asmitha’s company and AILENA, the new AI-based dating app that they’re about to launch, in an article in TechCrunch . If I’ve been stalking her right, this is going to be her third venture since college.

I’m not sitting in front of my laptop, with my fingers crossed, excited to sign up for this new app because I’m looking for a date or for love. No, no. I just want to find out if she’s taken any ideas from our university project. If she has, I can probably sue her for millions and then use that money to travel the world and post pictures like my favourite Indian blogger Ramy does. Oh yes, On the Open Road is my favourite blog. That could be my happily ever after. God knows though whether I’ll also fall in love with a hot Italian or French guy while travelling. Even having these thoughts makes me grin!

But the truth is, it’s nearly impossible to be chosen as a beta tester, especially when they need just two people from amongst all the crazy, love-seeking weirdos from across the world who want to find love via this supposedly revolutionary app. If you understand mathematical probability, then you’ll know that the chances of my getting selected are as low as winning a public lottery. But I don’t mind trying. So, with a prayer in my heart, I duly fill in my data as soon as the link goes live and hit send.

And ta-da! I’m done.

I look up from my laptop screen to see that it has started raining outside. The entire city, so perfectly lit up, is now all but lost in the grey clouds that seem to be rolling towards my abode. The tiny droplets of rainwater running down the glass wall merge with each other as they flow down the length of the building, much like how people fall for each other and fall with each other when they’re in love. The scene outside looks like a blurred piece of modern art done in shades of grey and black. Or perhaps it would be better to describe it as a photograph taken to study the bokeh effect.

Whenever it rains, I miss the intoxicating smell of wet soil. Here, everything is made with cement and concrete. The streets are laid with a heating technology that automatically melts the snow during winter. The entire city is kept so clean that you hardly see any pests or insects. The kitchen sinks are so immaculate and the drainage systems so top-notch that you don’t have to worry about cockroaches taking over your kitchen once you turn off the lights and go to sleep. Lizards are a distant dream. That’s how sterile the whole city is.

Back in my old home in Delhi, birds would chirp all day and insects would crawl out at night. We would try all sorts of tricks to keep the birds out of our small balcony, lest they build nests and lay eggs. And spraying insecticides and repellents in the kitchen to keep the ants and cockroaches at bay was a pretty regular thing. Surprisingly, while I hated all of it back then, I miss it now. Setting traps and spraying? No, no. I mean I miss the birds, ants and cockroaches.

There’s another thing I don’t like about America: the dearth of fresh food and the lack of access to freshly cooked meals. Processed and cold storage food along with junk stuff are the face of an extremely capitalist food market here. And private guns? Let’s not even go there. The mere thought of being brown and being shot down by a random white guy at a random supermarket makes my heart shrink. I don’t even have a nominee to my bank account!

Yet when my uncle proposed the idea of me moving abroad to build a dream life, neither he nor I had any idea what fate held in store for me. The allure of money was enough for me to grab that chance to escape to this faraway dreamland. My only exposure to the US at that point in time had been through the marketing campaigns that boasted of the economy here. And of course, there was the limited access that I had to American pop culture which painted a vivid picture of the beautiful American Dream in our minds.

But now this is my life, one that I have built for myself. The money I possess now can buy me almost all the comforts that were a distant aspiration in my home country. So, I really don’t have much to complain about. Except that ambition has fuelled my life for such a long time that having more money is something I would never grumble about.

The biggest lesson that life has taught me is that everything passes. The good thing about bad times is that they pass. And the bad thing about good times is that they pass as well. The truth about life is that whether here or there, or anywhere and everywhere, it passes! Neither does it pause for a moment when you arrive on this planet, nor will it stop after you’re long gone. It flows endlessly like the river that meets the sea. And the most challenging task we’ve been given is to find meaning, to find that boat that will rescue us from drowning and keep us afloat until we finally drown when we die. Until we say our final goodbye to this world.