So last Thursday I went, by myself, to the post office to buy some stamps. It’s early summer here in New York City. Which means our city weather is in a schizophrenic state, not knowing whether to refresh us with spring breeze or scald us with relentless sweat-stewed heat. On this special day it was the latter. This afternoon, it was as if a citywide furnace had farted unseen fire into faux imported Manhattan air. As always, I was in my standard June uniform: a white tee and khakis, accented with two-dollar flip-flops. Looking just like your average Indian American boy walking in the Big Apple. During the summer. Which as anyone of Indian descent might know, often feels like August in Calcutta.
Three blocks away from my destination, I saw two older, balding Black gentlemen strolling down the sidewalk.. Nothing special. They were both conventionally dressed, in polos and shorts. Walking past them, I now saw a group of white men and women, maybe four in total. Oh. Damn it all to hell in a hand basket. Wouldn’t you know, these folks looked like they just left the set of Friends. The same show that gloriously depicted an all-white, melanin-free New York City. Twenty-something, upper-middle-class privileged nightmares who probably just graduated from Boston University and were now living it up in the big city. With their yuppie crapola, and with their wannabe-hip hairstyles and with their irritating young-professional attire and with their John Mayer music in their ipod’s. I didn’t understand why they weren’t at their 9-5 jobs. Lunch breaks, I guessed. Continue reading