From Ganges to Hudson

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

• From Ganges to Hudson
• Buku Sarkar (bio)

At seven in the morning, like any other day, Mr. Munshi left his home and made his way three blocks down Lexington Avenue. He walked by the same trees and the same windows and the same corner deli at exactly the same hour, when everything was quiet. Rather than feeling fresh and rejuvenated from last night’s rest, he had, as usual, tossed and turned and finally, unable to remain in bed any longer, had risen at four-thirty—looking out of the window at an empty avenue, waiting for the sun to rise.

He was a short man, a rather stout man, and an affable man who knew everyone in the neighborhood and even from a distance. All the other shopkeepers could spot his familiar khaki pants, his checkered hat, his thinning, silver hair, his characteristic slow and steady pace, as if he had nowhere to go.

“Look, here comes Dada,” they would say as he ambled closer, from blocks away. They had seen him pass by for almost twenty years. So long that he had become a fixture on the avenue, like the ancient signboards and the rundown buildings that were condemned [End Page 320] by the city housing department. The very sight of him maintained, for them, a sense of order.

On the pavement were pieces of broken glass and tossed-out food, remnants of the night before. Mr. Munshi shook his head in disgust. These few blocks, stretching from his studio on Thirty-Second Street, to the last of the Indian stores on Twenty-Fifth, had become the extended terrace he and Usha could no longer afford. Lately, hordes of young graduates looking for a bargain were moving into the vicinity, ruining its camaraderie and peace.

Some days, he thought there should be a zoning law determined by age. Other days, he dreamt of a long moving sidewalk, divided in two. One for those with cell phones, one for those without.

Trudging on.

The cracked sidewalks that led to the shops. The shops that led to the avenue. The shops that led to home. The shops that were his world.

________

There was an uncharacteristic chill in the September air, and Mr. Munshi pulled his jacket closer. He feared that winter would come early.

As he opened the door to his shop, he was greeted by its familiar musty smell, which clung to the dulled fabrics on the wall and the dusty books on the shelves. He lit an incense stick, placing it on top of the filing cabinet. He sat on the only chair, the one usually reserved for Usha, and stretched his short legs underneath the table. But the space was too narrow, and as the chair shifted backward, he hit the cabinet behind, making it rattle. Flecks of burnt incense fell in neat droppings on its surface, as if Usha’s invisible hands had quickly aligned them before they could scatter. [End Page 321]

With each passing day, the store felt smaller. No matter how many old saris and books they gave away for free, how many boxes of old cassettes they threw out, there were always too many things in there—carpets and vases and fabrics and carvings, like relics from some ancient crypt.

Still, this was Mr. Munshi’s favorite time of the day: early morning, before the sun had risen past the tall buildings; before the other store shutters went up; before the buses switched to their rush-hour schedule; before Mr. Abram’s footsteps hammered up the stairs to his law office on the second floor; before Lewis came to sweep the sidewalk; before Usha arrived and he had to fetch her breakfast; before the phone calls came from Calcutta—his brother, Usha’s sister—asking when he, Mr. Munshi, would next visit; it had been so long they couldn’t remember what he looked like.

This time of day he sat alone in his shop with a cup of hot tea and two digestive biscuits (dark chocolate, because he had heard that it was good for the heart), listening to news on the radio. Budget cuts, unemployment, tax breaks, Wall...