When I dropped the keys of my room to my landlord’s postbox, I had nothing left in Chicago. I had an exuberant feeling and confidence that I was free from all worldly ties and realised why hermits were always full of joy. I boarded an el (elevated train) and gate-crashed into a friend’s apartment. They were students at the University of Chicago and shared a three-bedroom apartment in a ghetto south of Chicago. I decided to have a frugal life in the United States for the rest of the few days.

I had to find a cheap way to reach New York City and fly out to Europe. Hitchhiking in the west could have been a viable solution but not in the busy interstate eighty connecting San Francisco to Newyork City via Chicago. The parallel state roadway U.S. Route 6 was no better despite its tall name, Grand Army of the Republic Highway, in honour of the civil war veterans. Drivers on these roads were generally city-dwelling and had no time for strangers. Notably, New York was one of the few states where hitchhiking was de-facto illegal, and I needed an alternate way.

It was the month of May when the colleges would be closed after the spring semester for summer vacation. Some students might move to their homes with their cars and look for partners to share the fuel costs and driving. There was no internet, and the usual way to look for partners was to post their requirements on bulletin boards.  

Each university had a student activity centre called Student’s Union, where they usually posted such requirements with their phone numbers. I checked the bulletin boards of about half a dozen universities in the Chicago area and found a suitable one at the Illinois Institute of Technology. Someone was going to Trenton, about seventy miles from New York City and asked for a ride sharing. I called him the following day at eight in the morning. There were no cell phones, and such calls were usually made early in the morning before one left for work.  

We talked for about five minutes about what I do and what he does, but then he said someone had already talked to him, and he had to ask if three riders would be OK with him etc. I assumed he was lying. He probably accepted me as genuine without a chance of crime but wanted to wait till the last moment for some white guy speaking English without an accent. I lied that I also posted a note in Reynold’s Hall, University of Chicago student’s Union, for a ride to New York areas. It would be great if he could confirm early. The call came the following morning, and we fixed the time and place of the meeting.   

Three days later, my friend with whom I was staying dropped me off before the Crown Hall on the IIT campus near downtown. The building, all steel and glass, was designed by Mies Van der Rohe and was already a designated landmark in Chicago. About a week ago, I resigned from an architectural firm involved in its design. I was taught all the intricacies of why Crown Hall was considered a landmark building in architectural history. I explained these to my friend, who gave me the ride when two college kids stood behind us. 

We did the customary handshakes, and I announced that my friends called me Jimmy. His Christian name was Robert, but I, to show my intimacy, asked, Can I call you Bob? He said, sure and then said I think you are not James; how shall I call you then? Ah! This guy was not an average American who couldn’t think beyond a non-christian name. I smiled and said, Guha. His companion steve said that’s not hard to say and asked were you talking about Van der Rohe? I said yes and finished my little expert lecture on Crown Hall. They asked how did you know so much about this building. I said I had just resigned from SOM, the firm once involved in its design. They both heard about SOM, and we became friends. 

I fished fifty dollars from my wallet, handed it over to Bob, and said this is my share for the gas. Bob said it would only be about thirty-five because Steeve would share up to Cleveland. I said I budgeted for fifty, so the extra fifteen are the surpluses for coffee and a doughnut. My subconscious mind probably prompted me to offer coffee because of the pang of disbelieving him when he said another person was already on board; my fault for advanced profiling a person.   

We all laughed; I bought them a coffee and rode with them. We quickly jumped on Lake Shore Drive to leave the windy city of Chicago. Since we were moving away from the city, we didn’t hit the morning rush hour. I enjoyed Michigan lake, on my left, practically a sea, and its waves on the beach for the last time. When we reached Calumet City bordering Indiana state, I knew the Chicago skyline would be lost, but I didn’t turn back. I told myself that I had thrown away my life here on my own and should only look forward from now on.  

We had our restroom break in Schererville, and I remembered they called the city The Cross Road of America and told them the tale.  

Long before the civil war and even before the European expansions, native Americans, Shawnee, Miami, and other tribes lived in this area. Several trails from different regions met here. When the modern road system started appearing, roads were built along the old tracks. The first generation motorable trunk roads, namely US Route 30, linking Oregon on the Pacific to New Jersey on the Atlantic & Route 41, linking Michigan on the great lakes to Miami near the Gulf of Mexico, were constructed at the turn of the last century that went through the centre of the town. Later, the interstate freeways of the sixties, I-80 and I-65, built along Route 30 and 41, also intersected here. The city claimed its fame by officially declaring it as The crossroad of America.  

I finished the story by adding a loose comment; this is America, and everybody wanted to be on the top. So Wentzville, a suburb of St. Louis, also claimed itself as The Crossroad of the Nation.  Steve thoughtfully asked what was unique about Americans trying to remain on top. Ah! I was on shaky ground now. A golden rule while hitching a ride was not to engage in a debate with the driver. After all, you were only a guest and must maintain quality time, mainly for which the driver picked you up during his lonely ride. I hesitated but then cautiously continued.  

One of the issues I experienced with the American communities was that they were sometimes self-centred and often self-declared an accolade for them, like in this case, Crossroad of America or Crossroad of the Nation. I came across one such false vanity in Poteau, Oklahoma, where they proudly set up a billboard on the roadside; Cavanal, the “World’s Highest Hill”.   

I learnt that its height was one thousand nine hundred ninety-nine feet, one foot less than two thousand above which the hill should be considered a mountain. The US Board on Geographic Names stated that the difference between a hill and a mountain in the US was 1,000 feet of local relief, but even this was abandoned long back. Any standard could not accept Cavanal Hill as the highest, but the local chambers of commerce always claimed it as such. Most residents in Oklahoma continued to believe in such distinctions that never existed. Steve smiled; you have a point, Guha. Ah! I was saved from a debate and quickly changed the topic. 

By evening, we reached Steve’s house on the outskirt of Cleveland. His parents offered us to spend the night there, which we readily accepted and started in the early morning following day after a hearty breakfast they served us.

We had our hamburger lunch in a Burger King somewhere in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania when Bob called his home from a payphone, which was once a most common sight in shops and restaurants but has virtually vanished these days. When he returned, I asked Bob to drop me off at the Trenton bus station for the Continental Trailways bus to New York. Bob said I was going to talk to you about this. I just spoke to dad; he said Trenton Bus station would close with the last bus leaving. So, we should call Continental for the timetable before we go. He has invited you to our home for a night’s stay, and he will go to the city tomorrow morning when he will drop you off at a subway station.

Bob said you know, dad served the US Marines in Korea and then, with his pals, travelled cross country in motorcycles through southeast Asia when we were toddlers. Mom never forgave her for such irresponsibility, and then, with a wink added, we no longer wish to hear his travel stories. Probably, he would talk to you about it. I was intrigued and accepted his dad’s offer for a night stay.

I was delighted to find a guru when I talked to Bob’s dad in the evening. He was an old-timer in overland travel. He didn’t return to States after decommissioning in Korea but went to Thailand with a mate, bought bikes and travelled in South East Asia. He entered India from Bangladesh, then East Pakistan in nineteen sixty when the hippie trail or overland travel was rare. In a sense, he was the granddaddy of my newly chosen lifestyle. He said you would be dog tired, maintaining a regular diary but try to note only the night stays, which will act as a milestone decades later. He laughed merrily and said you should open the list from tonight and include my home as the first entry. I didn’t correct him that I spent the first night in Steve’s place but said sure; I bought a notebook from the subway station the following morning and started recording the stays, which did help even now.

He startled me with a sudden query; when I was in Calcutta, I met a young traffic warden wearing a white uniform and a sergeant’s hat on the motorbike. He was white with clear blue eyes and spoke perfect British English. Do you still have some Englishmen working in your country? I recalled seeing such a Seargent several times in Park Street in Calcutta. I assumed he was an Anglo-Indian and told him so. I added some colours stating that most of his kind had emigrated to Australia. But that question is still in my mind about that mystery sergeant with blue eyes managing traffic on Park Street, Calcutta.

The following day, he dropped me off in the early morning at a subway station in the Bronx.

Anyone who spent a winter in Chicago would know why they call it a windy city. Blizard from Lake Michigan would cut like a sharp whip passing through the flesh, numbing the skin. However, a new yorker, Victoria, then a student at the IIT, Chicago, told me a different story. She said that a New York Sun reporter Charles Dana, a century ago, called the politicians of Chicago windbags full of hot air and popularised the term windy city. It reminded me that Vicky, whom I once tutored for a master’s thesis on behalf of my boss and later a classmate in sailing and astronomy courses that we both enrolled in for fun, was in Columbia now, but I swept her away from attention.

But why they chose New York as a big apple was not evident even to many residents. In the 1920s, there were some big cash prizes in horse racing in New York. Fitz Gerald, a contemporary sports journalist, called these high stakes available only in New York as Big Apple. It is a city of hope for millions of immigrants. Luckily, I felt the same vibe whenever I dropped into the big apple, like remembering Vicky this time. Something good will also happen here this time, I hoped.    

I remembered Bob’s dad and bought a good notebook from a subway stall for the night stay list. Stall keepers in the New York subways mainly were Gujratis. I asked in Hindi about the lines I should take to reach the airport. He produced a subway map, explained everything and even gave away the map; it was a free issue for sure, but he was not obligated to give away the map anyway; a help to a desi bhai, not a simple matter on the busy pavement of New York. Maybe I did his bouni; who knows?   

I boarded the green line and started my journey from 241st street. Classmate Vicky crept into my mind several times, but I had other things to plan. Finally, I decided that this large backpack must be stored first. The Gujarati Bhai advised me to catch the blueline train towards the airport to Fulton Street for the transfer, but I got off the train only halfway to Grand Central, the famous Times Square area of New York. Ah! I enjoyed the 42nd Streetscape with wonder and wide eyes, just like when I arrived in the USA for the first time eight years ago. The only difference was that now I am familiar with the details of most of these buildings in Manhattan. I walked towards the Hudson River and entered the enormous multistoried 42nd Street and 8th Avenue crossing bus station.  

They had self-service lockers large enough for backpacks. Sometimes, they had timers like a parking meter or an attendant selling tickets. These were once a common feature in most stations in the USA but no longer existed after terrorist attacks; they used to leave time bombs in lockers. Two other things had also become extinct from transportation facilities. Rows of pay telephones could not be seen anymore. The white and yellow phone directories were also gone. Seats with a pay TV with timers for waiting passengers had become extinct. The new addition was, of course, free or paid wi fi lines. I left the backpack, and now, much lighter, only with a side bag, visited the Iceland consulate in a highrise in Manhattan and rechecked the requirements for arrival documents. I didn’t need a visa in those days, but there were fund requirements for entry, and I also collected some travel information.   

The most complicated part was buying the air ticket at that time. Freddie Laker, a new kid on the block, challenged the goliaths PanAm and British Airways by offering a forty-dollar one-way ticket from London to New York, about one-fourth of the standard airlines. This facility was from the London side only. Americans were sceptical at such a price, but after years of file pushing, President Jimmy Carter deregulated airfare, and the market went topsy-turvy when I appeared in New York. 

I never had the opportunity to fly in Laker’s Skytrain. But the flights were in chaos, more or less like an Indian train. Seats were in first cum first served basis; people waited overnight to board the plane. There was no food service, and everyone boarded the plane with picnic baskets. Imagine the mess caused by juices from the Greek yoghurt, soy sauce from Chinese noodles and syrups from Indian Gulab Jamun on the plane seats. After about a month, they had to prohibit outside food but introduced food service at an additional cost of fifteen dollars.

Other airlines jumped in for a share of their cut in the deregulated sky, and Icelandic Airlines was one of them. They booked the ticket and seat numbers in advance but without an option of purchaser’s preference, and the cancellation charges were very high. To fill up the plane, they offered the opportunity of a standby ticket. One hour before closing, they would sell the available tickets for a forty per cent discount on first cum first served basis, making the tickets lower than the Skytrain. But you might have to attempt again if they need to accommodate you. 

The ticket had one great advantage. The plane first flew from New York to Reykjavik, Iceland, where one can take a free stopover for up to a month. The booking finally took one to Luxemburg, the heart of Europe. I purchased one such ticket and did not need to pay at the airport, but the seat was only guaranteed once they issued the boarding pass.   

While running from place to place, buying tickets, I suddenly found I was famished and needed fuel. In today’s New York, I could have obtained street foods like Kolkata, Kati Roll, Dhakai Biriyani with halal meat, Srilankan Dosa, or Bombay Bhel. Forty-five years ago, it was a little tighter than that. Even if these were available as street food, I would not try these because my palate was more westernised then. I looked for an all-American hotdog and bought one from a pavement cart near Times Square. Two franks with buns, some sauerkraut – pickled raw cabbage, and a touch of mustard sauce made these yummy for my palate. After dousing my hunger, I bought a vanilla softy in a cone, found a seat at a bus stop, sat there and saw the tourists passing by Times Square.    

I started taking stock of my position. While running around the offices, Vicky came and went away into my mind several times, but after buying the air ticket and eating lunch, she moved in to occupy my head. My current problem was finding a place to sleep, and I considered several.  

I knew a distant uncle who would undoubtedly ask me to visit him and stay for the night. But aunty would put me into a severe inquisition for leaving the work and bore me to death with her advice. There was one Sikh Gurudwara at 30th Street and 7th Avenue; they would, if I pleaded, probably allow me to stay for a night, but I was honestly not in distress. I could go to JFK airport, where the main hall remained open at night. Almost the same is for Grand Central Station, where I dropped off this morning. The arena would be closed from 2 to 5 AM, and I had to wait in the foyer for three hours with many other homeless people, but I might get mugged at that time. Sleeping out in summer in New York City should be a breeze. About ten thousand people were doing that when I was thinking about these; now, the homeless numbers are over twenty thousand.  

I knew a few more creative ways to spend a quiet night in New York City, like in a cemetery or under a particular church foyer. The vicar, I was told, hitchhiked extensively in his time in South America and kept a blind eye to genuine travellers. I could stay in an illegal homestay at Hell’s kitchen, the restaurant district of Manhattan, where the employees would take a few bucks for a quiet corner. And if everything failed, there was Pussycat, a unique way that only the big apple could offer of spending a night for $8 on 42nd street. It was a mob-controlled adult show hall where the hardcore film would run non-stop up to 5 AM when I would come out and collect my backpack from the bus station, a few minutes away, which opened at 4 AM and would take a subway from its basement towards JFK airport and start the line at Icelandic airways – clean and straightforward. 

I could even read the names of the half-a-dozen triple X-rated movies they were playing in the Pussycat on the billboard from my seat at the bus stop. Three of these were classics in the porn world. I saw these three but repeating it will be fine. The ‘score’ was marketed as a ‘deliciously wild weekend of mixed doubles‘. Later, it became even more famous because Sylvestor Stalone was a lead actor. I could see the film ‘behind the green door’, which was given the top titles of lesbian sex, and finally, ‘the deep throat’, a phenomenon in the porn world, famous for blowjobs.   

The lead actor Linda Loveless, real name Linda Boreman wrote about the brutal regime she had to follow at the insistence of her abusive husband for ‘deep throat’ filming. Swallowing an erect male organ, six inches by half inches up to its hilt, which became common after that in the porn world, was shown for the first time. Human mouths were not designed for such routines, and it would take long practice to achieve it, with a real risk of choking if the male actor made errors.  As a matter of fact, the infamous Jack the Ripper of London killed at least a couple of hookers in this method.

The Deep Throat was so realistic that the boys expected such routines from their dates. On the other hand, the girls started believing boys should have the kind of stamina they never had. Psychiatrist treatments were introduced in educational institutions teaching that porn was only like James Bond films, to be enjoyed in the hall but not to be expected during sex. I did not care for all these theories while licking a softy in Times Square, and I was excited that a whole night of porn could be seen for $8.    

I was then debating mentally; I could either opt for the most pleasurable, Pussycat option or take an uncertain chance of finding Vicky. Will she help me to find a bed in the student dorm, or if the lotto strikes, even let me sleep with her – who knows?  

I remembered a friend, a Parsi industrial engineering student named Firdousi from Bombay IIT, who called himself Freddie and our source of envy; because he managed three sleeping partners, one of them even married, simultaneously. As newbies, we were told that finding girls in bed was Freddie’s engineering resources allocation problem. He developed a complete supply chain theory about it. We invited him to lecture us with unlimited free beer. He started the class by declaring the fundamental differences between India and the West. Like his IIT faculty, he emphasised learning the theory first to handle all situations. He said the naked female body in India was considered a relic, something divine and could be only used once and then it became a leftover, not the original anymore. This one-time virginity value prompted desi girls to adopt a different strategy before untying their petticoat knots.    

In the west, the female body was an asset, like company stocks, It had a time value, and they used it judicially with market conditions. Set up situations to get that asset if you know when they would use it. Then, Freddie, like his IIT professors, also gave the shortcuts he termed mantra to solve issues for ordinary desi bhai like us without knowing the theories. In his assessment, that would be inefficient, and you may have to work harder. 

On the second bottle of beer, Freddie gave us his mantra; he lectured us for continuing to court a girl even if she rebuffed but to be always polite and never intimidating. After a while, she would be either pleased or bored or both to unzip her skirt and, if nothing else, only to give a prize for your efforts. Freddie announced with confidence; see, these Engrez girls all suffered from the self-confidence of finding suitors. They had to change their asset value with time. In junior year, a beautiful girl may not care to date you. But in the graduate years, the same girl maybe after you. The problem is they primarily try to get a life partner before leaving college. They could not ask their mom to find someone suitable, like desi gals. The same body might have different values, like in the share market, at other times.  

Their insecurity in finding a match was their weakest area. If you are persistent, they might send you to the bank. We asked what this bank was. Freddie continued, they let you sleep once or twice and keep you as a reserve. They might need you to keep their boyfriend or husband on a leash. If the boyfriend were adventurous to another chic, you would get a telephone; I am so lonely, dear, can I visit your place? The boyfriend would soon come to the line. It was all the same to you. You needed raw flesh, and they would supply it.  

Freddie’s memory, somehow, made me impatient to find Vicky. It suddenly became vital in my mind; I took a subway from 41st street to 116th Street and walked to Bernard Hall, Columbia University.  

Finding a graduate student in a US school is relatively simple. All most all students had an office which meant a room in the department with twenty-four hours of access for research work. In engineering schools, these rooms are often called labs, and in design studies like architecture, such spaces had a fancy name called studios. Each student had a specific desk where they kept their study materials. I went to the urban studies department secretary and enquired about her office; I collected the room number and dropped it in unannounced. She wasn’t there but returned shortly. She was surprised to see me, exclaimed hi, Jimmy, and ran to hug me. I told him I was going to Europe and wanted to meet her before leaving. My housing problem was quickly resolved because she suggested, on her own, staying at her place. She had another class in half an hour, but we agreed to meet at the visitor centre steps. I announced dinner tonight was on my account. She said that She had a roommate who was doing a PhD. Before she could say anything, I said, please tag her along. She said she had to ask her. 

In the next two hours, I returned to the bus station, collected my backpack, and then arrived at the visitor centre in time. Since I invited them to dinner, I was supposed to select a restaurant. I consulted a yellow-page phone book, another extinct item, at the bus station and located a Bangladeshi restaurant within a short walking distance. I called and booked a table at six in the evening. I started talking in Bengali and gauged that it was a basic eatery but offered Biriyani etc.  

The visitor centre was an old classical building with a large dome, corinthian columns and a broad flight of stairs, where students often congregate. The two girls came in time; her companion looked into my backpack and escorted me without a word to a next-door coffee place where she seemed to know everyone. I left the pack in the backroom and returned to the stairs. I told them I am a Bengali and what particular virtues we have, some half-truths and some fiction. Then I asked whether they had tasted Bengali cuisine; they heard Bangladeshi food was hot and spicy and never ventured. We all went to the chosen restaurant; it was a poor dingy place, as correctly judged when I called, but it probably gave a colour of authenticity, and the girls didn’t probably mind. We had a sumptuous dinner of Dhakai, that is, Katchhi Biriyani, Bakharkhani, Haleem, Sheesh Kebab and Borhani, or spiced lassi, concluded with a couple of Bengali sweets. The girls found the Biriyani, sheesh kebab and the hot Jelabi most delicious but what they liked the most was the price, which was low by New York dining out standard. They thanked me for such an excellent value-for-money diner in their neighbourhood that they never even considered for an evening out. We then returned to the earlier coffee shop. We spent quality time till nine in the evening when we returned to their brownstone, an old-style dilapidated rented apartment in Morning Side Heights.  

Brownstone was a cheap facade stone used extensively in New York. The term had lost its original meaning and was now used for all similar-looking buildings and old buildings. Their apartment building looked like the old New York buildings, just like in the Hollywood sets. A high plinth with a staircase to access the road, thus creating a basement for the servants. Now the buildings are rundown and subdivided for multiple student groups. They had a first-floor apartment; I commented that it was the best for fire safety. Her friend looked at me with appreciation and said my dad also said the same. One of the problems with brownstones was that the stairs were made of untreated timber and became impassable during a large fire. But the first-floor resident could quickly jump from windows on the fire department tarpaulins and would mostly be saved, which was more complex for the second and third floors.   

They had two bedrooms, each shared by one, and a studio with an open kitchen. Vicky’s roommate said she had to study, bid goodbye, went to her bedroom and locked the door. We talked for another fifteen minutes, and then I messed up. She said you would be tired; let me show you your bed. She took me to her room, showed me her bed, and said you sleep here. I said casually, where will you sleep then, baby? This bed is good for two. I didn’t hear any response; when I raised my eyes, I found a stern face, not pleasant like before. She said in a slow hissing voice, is that the reason you came here before jumping off the pond – some new yorkers’ slang for the Atlantic. I fumbled and couldn’t find words. Vicky was not yet through and continued in the same hissing voice; if that were what you only cared about, you would have been better off picking up a couple of hookers from Times Square.     

Freddie’s advice flashed past; he said even when rebuffed, keep on courting but always be polite and never intimidating. Yes, I was impolite and asked her to crawl into my bed even before sending the customary feelers like I adore you; could we meet more often or ask for an evening date? I quickly set up my restoring lecture in Freddie’s line. I fixed my gaze on one of her family pictures on the wall and started in a hurting tone, Vicky, I am an outsider in this country, not even white. Very few Americans were intimate with me; you were one of them. Remember how we searched the historic Chicago archives and took sailing and astronomy classes together? You were always kind to me, but I was too feeble to ask you even for an evening date. English is my second or probably my third language. I might have now used inappropriate or vulgar wordings, but my feelings towards you were long-standing commitments; You may surely snub me off right away, but please do not compare my feelings towards you with a Times Square hooker. Why do you think I have popped up here? I just wanted to say that I have a feeling for you. Now, it is up to you.  I was pleased with my lecture; the challenge was whether Vicky would buy it. I waited for the reaction, still looking at her family picture for a few more seconds.

Then I looked at her in the doorway; the cloud was gone from her face, and she gave me a bright smile. She said Jimmy; I thought you were a gentleman. Boldened by her smile, I ventured did you change your opinion now? She smiled; the good Indian gentleman turned into a crafty brown bastard still attempting to seduce me. I shrugged; was anything wrong with seducing his love for a crafty Indian bastard? She said no more discussions, Jimmy, or else I might land in your lap. But we will talk tomorrow, I promise. I will fix you breakfast before you start. By the by, I set a bed with blankets and sleeping bags in her room. We often did when friends slept over, and I won’t be uncomfortable. 

She said, good night and sweet dream! She was almost closing the door when I yelled, of what – watching you in the dream? She waited for a second and said or the Times Square hooker – whatever you prefer. She closed the door; I yelled again, F word for you in my dream. She cracked open the door and said through the slit, any vision is OK, but you are not authorised to jerk off in my bed. Got it, sweety, and she closed the door. I felt her resistance had lowered, and she became more flexible. I thought, Freddie, you were a genius. Your supply chain theory for girls in bed should earn you a PhD.             

I was dreaming about Iceland; I didn’t see Vicky or Times Square topless hookers in the dream but topless black volcanic sand roads beside the sea. I took ten minutes more to finish the morning chores, shaving and shampooing after about five days for a presentable face in Reykjavik immigration the next morning. When I came to the table, Vicky informed me that her roommate had just left for some work and could not say goodbye; she was reading  The Daily Spectator, Columbia’s student newspaper.   

All large schools in the USA had student-run papers financed mainly by advertisements from the local businesses that sold services to students. These were managed by students but professional standards and were equal to or better than local newspapers.  The Daily Spectator of Columbia was among the top, competing with The Daily Sun of Cornell, The Daily Princetonian etc. Two years ago, they were voted to the top by professional journalists beating the venerable The Crimson of Harvard, where once the editors were Kennedy and Roosevelt, presidents of the United States.      

I found on the table that she had already set up two cereal boxes and a bowl upside down with a banana with a Chiquita sticker. One of the cereal brands didn’t test well on my palate, but the other with nut and resin was one of my favourites. I poured a cupful of cereal, and she poured the cold milk into the bowl; I sliced the banana and sprinkled it in the bowl. She went up to the counter and threw four slices of brown bread into the toaster; she removed cream cheese and blueberry preserves from the fridge and set these on the table. I noticed that brands like Chiquita or Kraft cream cheese were expensive. Still, Indians like me learnt to use the cheapest versions, like Paulson’s margarine and Kiassan jam from the Indian grocery stores.

She cracked four eggs on a large frying pan, threw in some cheddar cheese and delicately chopped sausage and threw these with some chopped onion into the pan. She quickly tore open some cilantro leaves and also sprinkled these. She fried it to golden brown and then did a trick I didn’t know. She cracked another egg and poured it inside the omelette before folding it. The extra egg inside kept it moist but golden brown outside. I now knew why some good restaurants could serve golden brown omelettes that wet, which I often wondered. I had years of odd job experience in fast food joints, but I needed someone to teach me about these finer recipes. She was still in her nightshirt without bras, and I was enjoying the harmonic motions of her boobs while she was cooking. Now, she did something like women everywhere in the world. I would have cut the large omelette precisely in half and half share, but she cut it in sixty-forty, and the larger piece was served to me. Such motherly feelings among women were universal even to her, who considered herself equal to men in all aspects.

We finished breakfast attentively without a word, and then she poured Folger Gold freeze-dried coffee, which was recently introduced and way more expensive, from the brewing machine. I again thought I had stayed in this country for so long but could not yet learn how to live well, and my humble background in Kolkata may have acted as a barrier to spending money. After my second sip, I looked up and said you promised to say something last night. 

She took a deep breath, poured some more coffee from the counter, came behind my chair, and put a hand on my shoulder. Ah! The first touch from her! She said I should apologise for my outbursts last night and came to sit in front. She enquired; why didn’t you ask me for a date in Chicago? Because my company assigned me as your tutor on behalf of my boss for the research work. Any emotional involvement with the tutor was forbidden in academics. She knew it, of course, and nodded. She continued, and you came up here only to see me before the jump. I quipped, didn’t you know those old soldiers never die? They simply fade away. She said don’t fool around, Jimmy; you knew what I meant. Were you interested in having long-term relations? I quipped, and you only decided last night that I had been thinking for so long. She replied Yes! But I am definite, she thoughtfully added, I knew you well but could never judge whether you would fall for a white gal. It was good that you came and discussed it. I had no hesitation in walking miles with you, Jimmy.  I said with a smile that long-term relations with me mean really a long time. It meant surviving my accented English for decades. You will have kids nicknamed Brownie Boys in their nursery. Your high school mates won’t fix a play date of their kids with yours because of their skin colours. Would you accept all these? She retorted, I am white and grew up here; I knew all these far better than you. She didn’t respond further but went to the kitchen counter to find something.

Freddie woke up somewhere in my brain cells. Abe guha!  She was putting you in the bank for future use; she had to offer her assets now to seal the deal. Take the chance, blabber some good things, and she would take off her nightshirt. Go wild; bite her boobs and scratch her buns before you jump. She won’t object to anything today because she was investing in you. I replied, Freddie, you are a genius who had such licenses, but with a middle-class Bengali mindset, I didn’t have such privileges. If I agree to a long-term relationship, she will only allow me to play with her, but I cannot do that. I would someday return to Kolkata, my home town. I cannot break a promise, Freddie. He gave me a disgusting look and vanished in my brain cells. 

Vicky returned from the counter with a piece of paper where her mom’s permanent addresses and phone numbers were neatly written. She said this address will always remain the same, and you can contact me in future. I took the note from her and took out my neck chain, where my details were written on a dog tag. She returned to the kitchen counter for copying, and I followed her. After copying, she put the chain back on my neck and rested her head on my chest for some seconds. She whispered with watery half-closed eyes. Would you please give me a parting kiss, brownie boy? But she didn’t wait and pulled me on her. Our lips met, first closed, then partly open, sucking each other’s lips. But soon, we became passionate about exploring each other’s mouths; our tongues intertwined like two cobras in heat. I continued squeezing her right breast with my left hand and felt her nipple springy-tight. Instinctively, I tried to open her nightshirt button with my left hand but fumbled. She hurriedly opened the top two buttons for easy access to her boobs.  

In that split second of waiting, my middle-class Bengali mindset kicked in. I thought, sorry, Freddie, I couldn’t take advantage of her unless I agreed to her long-term commitment condition, which I was not. Despite permanent address exchanges, I would most likely live in Kolkata and never see her. I can’t commit a breach of trust just for sex.

I was probably slow or inactive for a second, engrossed in my deep thought, but Vicky was excited. She cried; hurry up, work on that other one, and I am fucking wet. I shook her shoulders gently. I said, come on, baby, you asked for long-term commitments before diving into you. I would have to think and plan. I couldn’t violate your trust only to enjoy this beautiful body; I squeezed her right tit again with a slight pinch on her erect right nipple, which came out of the shirt by that time, and she shuddered. She was startled at first by a vacant expression and didn’t follow why I was refusing but then realised the value of my oath. She started sobbing on my shoulder and said, Jimmy, you were a gem of a person. Even I couldn’t control myself with your fondling after a year. I was never laid down in New York and became so horny. Chicago was a different story, but I wanted to avoid that wild lifestyle, and you were true to your words. 

Think it over, but please come back by the following May when I graduate.  I was looking out for a partner. Please, don’t leave me. Jimmy, come back by May, and then we will travel together. She placed her chin on my shoulder; and sobbed.  

Freddie mocked me inside my brain cells.  Abe Guha, you were worthless. Her sobbing made you sentimental. She would sleep with the next suitor, if she could find any, within a week. You didn’t learn anything from my lectures. The stock, her naked body, was going less than the market value today because she was in a hurry, lonely and horny.  Now is the time to eat her up. You still have a few seconds left. Give her a wet kiss and undress her at the kitchen table. I resisted Freddie with efforts within my brain cells.      

To change the topic, I said, if you are fucking wet, I touched my knee lightly between her thighs and said, then go to the bathroom and pull it off. She started smiling when her eyes were still full of tears. She swore, Hey, Brownie bastard, did you think I could raise my severely damaged reputation to heighten any further if I have to go to the bathroom now? 

I suddenly lost interest in her and thought of reaching the airport in time. I assembled a few things and started lacing up my boots. When I was finished, she embraced me, this time from the back, to retain control over her boobs but pressed these hard on my back. She whispered again from the back. Jimmy, please come back in May for a new start. We walked two blocks, sometimes holding hands and waiting on the subway platform.   

When the train was about to enter, I pushed her hard against the tiled wall and stole a deep kiss.  She allowed the kiss for a couple of seconds but then bit on my lower lip hard and held it like a vice. My left hand was on her right boob, and I pressed it deeper in response to the intense pain from her bite. She didn’t flinch, either. Her face was towards the train; she knew what was happening. She released her grip from my lip and whispered go. I ran towards the gate, and she said, come back in May. She repeated, please. This time her voice was louder, and the appeal was intense; it etched into my brain forever. I sometimes hear the word please in her voice when I board subways in New York, even today.    

I barely made it to the coach with my heavy pack. The doors closed, and the coach started moving. I saw only a glimpse of her; she probably had tears in her eyes.  I licked the bite, and it was hurting.  I stood before a young blond in the seat and put my pack on the floor. I licked my wounded lip when our eyes met. She gave a mysterious smile and silently mouthed, going far? I nodded. She softly said sit here; I will soon get off. I nodded; she stood up, and her face was close to my ear when she murmured, “God bless both of you”. I murmured thank you, mam.       

I reached the airport in time, being the second person on the line for standby passengers. We were lucky that day, and four seats were available from a cancellation. I reached Reykjavik the next day and sent her a picture postcard with some sweet nothing but no return address.       

After about two and half years, I returned home after a tiring local train ride from Jadavpur University, Kolkata, where I was teaching. I found a picture postcard from Michigan that started with Jimmy Brownie. She wrote I entered the PhD programme at U. Mich. If you have a chance, don’t hesitate to contact me. Signed V. I recalled her face on the 116th Street subway platform with tears in her eyes with that intense appeal, please, but I did not respond to the postcard. She knew old soldiers had to fade away.