sonu kumar
Posted On: 09-04-2019
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Forty Four

I stepped out of the apartment building. Cold winds slashed at my
face. My phone showed the time as 11.12 p.m. and a temperature of 20
degrees Fahrenheit, or -6.6 degrees Celsius. People were all bundled
up in gloves, caps and jackets, i saw a group of four friends walk
towards the 86th Street subway ahead of me.
Fresh snow had made the pavements powdery and white. The
group of four and 1 reached the subway stop. We took the steps down
to the metro. Some African-Americans were coming up the steps.
‘It’s not coming, woo hoo, no train tonight...’ said one of them in a
drunk voice.
‘How am I going to get my ass to Brooklyn?’ his friend said.
‘A hundred-dollar cab ride, baby. That ass deserves it,’ another
friend said. They all laughed.
I reached the customer services counter. A plump African-
American lady from the Metropolitan Transit Authority, or MTA, sat
inside. She made an announcement into a microphone.
‘Ladies and gentleman, due to heavy snow, we are experiencing
huge delays on all lines. A train is stalled in the network near Grand
Central. We are trying to remedy the problem. We suggest alternative
travel arrangements.’
I checked the station clock: 11.19 p.m.
Google Maps suggested the subway would have taken me to
Bleecker Street in seventeen minutes. From there, it was a nine-minute
walk to the cafe.
‘How much delay?’ I asked the customer service officer.
‘Who knows, honey,’ she said. ‘It’s snow. Half an hour, an hour,
two hours. Take your pick.’
I ran up the steps and came out of the station. Cold air sneaked in
under the jacket’s collar and down my neck.The road had little traffic.
I waited but no empty cab went past.
I asked a passer-by, ‘I need to go to the West Village urgently.Where can I get a cab?’
'Want one myself.’
I checked the time: 11.25 p.m.
‘Walk west to Fifth Avenue.You will hit Central Park. Try there,’
someone said.
I took rapid strides to Fifth Avenue. I reached the periphery of
Central Park, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Amber lights lit
up the museum building. The falling snowflakes created a soft-focus
effect.
Time: 11.31 p.m.
If I didn’t get a cab, I would not be able to reach West Village
before midnight. I couldn’t see any cabs. I looked up at the sky to
pray. Snowflakes fell on my face.
God, please, please, I said.
I looked around me. At least six more people waited for cabs. My
heart sank. I wanted to cry.
One cab, please, I said, waiting for magic to happen.
No cabs.
Time: 11.34 p.m.
I reopened Google Maps. I checked the distance from my current
location at the Met Museum to Cafe Wha? and chose the pedestrian
option.
It displayed this: Walk 4.0 mi, 1 h 10min
The route was simple. I had to go straight down south on Fifth
Avenue for 3.8 of the 4 miles, and then turn right.
‘Four miles. 6.4 kilometres,’ I mumbled to myself.
An hour and ten minutes to walk, I thought. If I ran, it would be
less. If I ran like a mad dog with a pack of wolves chasing it, even
lesser.
‘Madhav Jha,’ I whispered to myself.‘Run.’
I remembered basketball. We used to run and dribble on court all
the time.
A basketball court is not the same as six-and-a-half kilometres inminus six degrees temperature,my sensible mind scoffed.
‘Don’t think. Don’t listen to sense. Just run,’ I told myself and took
off.
I ran so fast my surroundings became hazy. Central Park on my
right and posh Upper East Side homes on my left whizzed past. My
face became numb in the cold air. The jacket began to feel heavy as
snow started to seep inside.
I had already spent the entire day walking, whether it was for
shopping, walking over to Madison Square Garden or back to
Shailesh’s home. I had not eaten much all day either. My legs began to
hurt.
‘C’mon Madhav,’ I panted, ‘c’mon.’
Sometimes, when nobody is by your side, you have to become
your own cheering squad.
I faked a dribble. It made me go ahead to catch my imaginary ball.
I checked the street sign: 67th Street. Cafe Wha? was near 4th.
'Don’t look at street signs. Just run, Madhav,’ I said aloud.
I passed a hotel on my left on 60th Street. It had an Indian flag
hanging above the main porch.
‘The Pierre: A Taj Hotel,’ a sign said.
The Indian flag unleashed a fresh wave of energy in me.
‘Run,’ I said to myself. ‘You can do this.’
I reached the most famous part of Fifth Avenue, with designer
stores on both sides.Tiffany’s was on 57th Street, Louis Vuitton on
51st. Riya’s journals had mentioned these brands.
On 50th Street, I developed a nasty cramp in my stomach. I had to
stop. I sat down in a squat and took a few deep breaths.
Time: 11.44 p.m.
‘Damn. There is no time. Feel the pain later,’ I told myself.
I couldn’t move. I scanned the street for cabs. Nothing. I winced in
pain.
On my right, I saw the NBA store. The store was shut. It had a
huge poster of Kobe Bryant outside.‘NBA—where amazing happens,’it said.
‘C’mon, Madhav. Be amazing.’
I stood up. Without thinking, I started to run again.
My legs and abdomen screamed with pain. My nose felt like ice.
However, my head felt like fire. I ran, almost jumped with every
stride, and looked straight ahead. Snow was in my sneakers, turning
my feet cold and wet.
‘Run, run, run,’ I whispered with every breath I reached a dead
end at Washington Square Park.
‘I’m close. Right turn from here.’
Time: 11.56 p.m.
I wanted to rest for a minute.
‘No rest,’ I scolded myself.
I turned right and ran.
The noise of music and the crowd outside made me stop.
Cafe Wha? The lit-up sign greeted me with its bright yellow letters.
I pumped my fists.

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