"The Labyrinth That Is the Big Apple" by Jyotsna Dhakal

Undergraduate Student Winner: Prose

                                The Labyrinth That Is the Big Apple

                                                    by Jyotsna Dhakal

Upon stepping outside the train, I get enveloped in the vibrancy of the city pulsing with life. I can almost hear the deep, low rumble of energy that it can barely contain.

The energy flows continuously—from the people to the city to the people. The equilibrium is not always maintained, however. I can feel the city lending me its energy, exhilarating me one moment, and sucking it right out of me the very next moment, taking what is rightfully its, exhausting me completely.

There are people—scores of people—rushing, pleading, begging, marveling, glaring, leering, jeering. There are more people—in sarees, kurtas, monkey caps—all fitting in, walking proud, no less American than the others. And then there are people speaking my tongue—as an unsure smile begins to form on my face on seeing them, they pass quietly, without so much as a glance in my direction.

I get filled with a sense of faint urgency. I walk, a feeling of quest probing me gently.

I make my way through the throng, and into the subway—complete with its stench and squalor—swallowing and spewing people of different sorts, with different tongues, origins, stories—they seem to be different in all ways except their glum, nonchalant expressions. Even though the train windows don't offer much of a view, these people stare into a faraway distance while in the train, some with bloodshot eyes—a result of too much crying, or too much drinking, or too many grueling night shifts.

At one of the numerous staircases of the station, I come across a spilled cup of coffee, perhaps dropped by someone in the morning rush of running for the train, with no time to lament over it, no time to even say goodbye.

The urgency intensifies.

Then comes the sound of music, the sort of awe-inspiring talent that no amount of money paid for expensive tickets could get one to, that gets voice only in the subway, that only people who can afford a little bit of valuable time are privy to.

I follow the sound waves. In a corner of the station lies my center—a guy with tetra-amelia plays the guitar, giving a whole new meaning to the act of making impossible possible, filling me with immense immediate inspiration, lending my life more meaning in that squalid corner amidst all the city’s eclecticism, just like that.