On either side of the fast-paced, eclectic Manhattan Island lie two faces of India. Literally within twenty minutes of commute from Central Manhattan, Jackson Heights in the Queens Borough of New York and Journal Square in Jersey City compete to lend New York its multi-ethnic character. There is the usual fare of Gujarati -owned chain of grocery stores called Patel Brothers. If you are a Bengali, you might be invited to the New Jersey Durga Puja and also for a Bengali Sammelan dinner on some weekend.
However, as one travels deeper into the two neighborhoods- through the narrow by lanes of Jackson Heights and the wide river walk along the Hudson River in the Newport area of Jersey City or the low-lying single story homes in Queens to the high rise condos in New Jersey – the vastly different urban landscape begins to reflect as to how grossly misplaced terms like "melting pot" can be. And one realizes the futility of trying to encapsulate India and Indians settled across New York into generic terms of cultural appropriation.
Jackson Heights:
This place boasts of its very own State Bank of India branch.
Jaikishan Nagar. Jackson Vihar. Jackson Bagh. Call it what you may- there is an endless string of jokes attached to this place. The F train from Manhattan stops at 74th Street between Roosevelt Avenue and 37th Avenue and the first objects of fancy are the shiny manhole covers marked in bold by the phrase "Made in India". Since iron molding and casting is potentially harmful for the environment and banned in America, these manhole covers were shipped in large numbers from Howrah in Kolkata by Shakti Industries for Con Edison and New York City’s Department of Environmental Protection, as well as for departments in New Orleans and Syracuse. Further down, beauty parlors and threading salons try to sell the “art of fine eyebrows”. Video installations of the thread piercing the skin are fixed on shop doorways next to posters of yesteryear film actresses. Madhuri Dikshit in her Choli ke Peeche outfit and Juhi Chawla in her balloon-like frocks with thick eyebrows and a bow fixed in her rather big hair will remind you of how carefully time remains balanced in Jackson Heights. The sleek, shiny women of modern India coexist with their slightly vintage peers. Rows of shops sell cheap DVDs of films that I have never even heard. They are titled like Khooni Daastan and Aadhi Raat Mein. My friend and I search for the names of producers and actors without much success but the blurbs on the covers manage to tell us the standard love story of the boy meets girl variety. All for five dollars.
When Karan Johar moved location from Mumbai to the awe inspiring Manhattan skyline and swooped down to the standard exposed brick houses and bustling street life of Queens- it was perhaps a depiction that could have come closest to representing the desi community in New York. We reached Queens just at a time when lunch hours were about to begin. The restaurants had names like Delhi Express, Rawalpindi Express and Pindi Dhaba. Groups of women clad in salwar-kurtas and keds were stepping out of their homes for afternoon walks. Some stood haggling with the owner of a vegetable stall. We walked into a halwai store. The shop smelled vaguely like Nathu’s Sweets in New Friends Colony of Delhi- a mixture of phenyl and milk. “This is so much like India,” my friend whispered to me as we tasted the mini rasgullas. “Better than India, Ma’am,” the lady behind the counter told us. “Try the desi ghee laddoo.” Much like Nathus Sweets, the shop also sold dosas, papdi chaats and gol gappas. The non descript décor with plain walls and polyvinyl chairs rang with sounds of laughter, clattering of steel plates and glasses and a strange mixture of languages- English, Spanish, Bengali and Gujarati and dialects that I could barely recognize.
In the next lane, mannequins dressed up in shimmery lehangas and fake diamond encrusted dupattas stared out from shop windows. “Only 400 dollars. Perfect for mehendi ceremony,” a pot-bellied shop assistant yelled out at me as I stared at the astronomical prices of salwar suits, trying in vain to convert the dollar prices into rupees. Wedding trousseaus, glittering bangles, peshawari chappals, achkans, chiffon saris lined the store.
"Bangladeshi?" the shop owner persisted.
"No Indian. Bengali," I answered back as he sized me up in my rather non-specific outfit comprising of skinny jeans and an Old Navy shirt. I suddenly felt out of place in my supposed “western” outfit. That was perhaps the eternal crisis in the existence of Diaspora and hyphenated identities- the need to conform to a new society and yet maintain the distinct identity of origin.
New Jersey:
“You need to eat the Indian food at Raaz,” a friend living in New Jersey told me. I was a little skeptical. With a name like Raaz (aka secret!) ,I couldn’t really trust the food coming out of there. And Jersey City wasn’t really a place you were supposed to seen at- especially if you are someone remotely connected to the creative industries. It was supposed to be a place teeming with Indians- techies, bankers, financiers and MBAs. “Come,” my friend begged. “It is another India. Truly.”
The Jersey City PATH train stops right across a plush mall of a size that perhaps doesn’t even exist in Manhattan. White tiled floors bounce off light towards glass ceilings with skylights. Sanitized air conditioned air blocks out the city grime and noise. Marc Jacobs, Kenneth Cole, Gucci and Prada line the floors. There is something universal in the design of malls- the way entrances and exits are placed. Or in the familiarity of the design of food courts and even in the food they sell- from chicken teriyaki to General Tao’s chicken or the extra creamy kadhai chicken that Raaz had to offer. In way people arrange themselves and gauge passersby. You will probably forget that you are in Jersey City or even America for that matter. Jersey could be Gurgaon and Newport Mall could be Emporia.
At the bottom of the mall, an office was designated as a site for University of Phoenix- one of the biggest online universities operating in the world today. The location of the virtual university office couldn’t have been more apt. The tradition of teaching and learning has been based on human contact and educationists today fear the increasing viability of online coaching and training programs.
The analogy seemed clear. Jersey City too reflected a steady usurpation of street life into the bored domains of glass ceilings and malls. The demise of a vital street life is slowly transforming the urban form of India. The boundaries between UP, Haryana and Delhi are ambiguous at best- marked by the global structures of capitalism and consumer culture. And more than 8000 miles away- across the Atlantic, Jackson Heights is trying to maintain the other face of India- the vivaciousness of making contact on the streets.
However, as one travels deeper into the two neighborhoods- through the narrow by lanes of Jackson Heights and the wide river walk along the Hudson River in the Newport area of Jersey City or the low-lying single story homes in Queens to the high rise condos in New Jersey – the vastly different urban landscape begins to reflect as to how grossly misplaced terms like "melting pot" can be. And one realizes the futility of trying to encapsulate India and Indians settled across New York into generic terms of cultural appropriation.
Jackson Heights:
This place boasts of its very own State Bank of India branch.
Jaikishan Nagar. Jackson Vihar. Jackson Bagh. Call it what you may- there is an endless string of jokes attached to this place. The F train from Manhattan stops at 74th Street between Roosevelt Avenue and 37th Avenue and the first objects of fancy are the shiny manhole covers marked in bold by the phrase "Made in India". Since iron molding and casting is potentially harmful for the environment and banned in America, these manhole covers were shipped in large numbers from Howrah in Kolkata by Shakti Industries for Con Edison and New York City’s Department of Environmental Protection, as well as for departments in New Orleans and Syracuse. Further down, beauty parlors and threading salons try to sell the “art of fine eyebrows”. Video installations of the thread piercing the skin are fixed on shop doorways next to posters of yesteryear film actresses. Madhuri Dikshit in her Choli ke Peeche outfit and Juhi Chawla in her balloon-like frocks with thick eyebrows and a bow fixed in her rather big hair will remind you of how carefully time remains balanced in Jackson Heights. The sleek, shiny women of modern India coexist with their slightly vintage peers. Rows of shops sell cheap DVDs of films that I have never even heard. They are titled like Khooni Daastan and Aadhi Raat Mein. My friend and I search for the names of producers and actors without much success but the blurbs on the covers manage to tell us the standard love story of the boy meets girl variety. All for five dollars.
When Karan Johar moved location from Mumbai to the awe inspiring Manhattan skyline and swooped down to the standard exposed brick houses and bustling street life of Queens- it was perhaps a depiction that could have come closest to representing the desi community in New York. We reached Queens just at a time when lunch hours were about to begin. The restaurants had names like Delhi Express, Rawalpindi Express and Pindi Dhaba. Groups of women clad in salwar-kurtas and keds were stepping out of their homes for afternoon walks. Some stood haggling with the owner of a vegetable stall. We walked into a halwai store. The shop smelled vaguely like Nathu’s Sweets in New Friends Colony of Delhi- a mixture of phenyl and milk. “This is so much like India,” my friend whispered to me as we tasted the mini rasgullas. “Better than India, Ma’am,” the lady behind the counter told us. “Try the desi ghee laddoo.” Much like Nathus Sweets, the shop also sold dosas, papdi chaats and gol gappas. The non descript décor with plain walls and polyvinyl chairs rang with sounds of laughter, clattering of steel plates and glasses and a strange mixture of languages- English, Spanish, Bengali and Gujarati and dialects that I could barely recognize.
In the next lane, mannequins dressed up in shimmery lehangas and fake diamond encrusted dupattas stared out from shop windows. “Only 400 dollars. Perfect for mehendi ceremony,” a pot-bellied shop assistant yelled out at me as I stared at the astronomical prices of salwar suits, trying in vain to convert the dollar prices into rupees. Wedding trousseaus, glittering bangles, peshawari chappals, achkans, chiffon saris lined the store.
"Bangladeshi?" the shop owner persisted.
"No Indian. Bengali," I answered back as he sized me up in my rather non-specific outfit comprising of skinny jeans and an Old Navy shirt. I suddenly felt out of place in my supposed “western” outfit. That was perhaps the eternal crisis in the existence of Diaspora and hyphenated identities- the need to conform to a new society and yet maintain the distinct identity of origin.
New Jersey:
“You need to eat the Indian food at Raaz,” a friend living in New Jersey told me. I was a little skeptical. With a name like Raaz (aka secret!) ,I couldn’t really trust the food coming out of there. And Jersey City wasn’t really a place you were supposed to seen at- especially if you are someone remotely connected to the creative industries. It was supposed to be a place teeming with Indians- techies, bankers, financiers and MBAs. “Come,” my friend begged. “It is another India. Truly.”
The Jersey City PATH train stops right across a plush mall of a size that perhaps doesn’t even exist in Manhattan. White tiled floors bounce off light towards glass ceilings with skylights. Sanitized air conditioned air blocks out the city grime and noise. Marc Jacobs, Kenneth Cole, Gucci and Prada line the floors. There is something universal in the design of malls- the way entrances and exits are placed. Or in the familiarity of the design of food courts and even in the food they sell- from chicken teriyaki to General Tao’s chicken or the extra creamy kadhai chicken that Raaz had to offer. In way people arrange themselves and gauge passersby. You will probably forget that you are in Jersey City or even America for that matter. Jersey could be Gurgaon and Newport Mall could be Emporia.
At the bottom of the mall, an office was designated as a site for University of Phoenix- one of the biggest online universities operating in the world today. The location of the virtual university office couldn’t have been more apt. The tradition of teaching and learning has been based on human contact and educationists today fear the increasing viability of online coaching and training programs.
The analogy seemed clear. Jersey City too reflected a steady usurpation of street life into the bored domains of glass ceilings and malls. The demise of a vital street life is slowly transforming the urban form of India. The boundaries between UP, Haryana and Delhi are ambiguous at best- marked by the global structures of capitalism and consumer culture. And more than 8000 miles away- across the Atlantic, Jackson Heights is trying to maintain the other face of India- the vivaciousness of making contact on the streets.
