The New Yorker stopped pining for Dhaka years ago.
Those days are long gone.
The ones with youth. Options. Optimism. Pessimism.
By now, it is all written—just a matter of acting out the script.
The early rise.
Living near the tracks used to make it easy. With age and time, he added the alarm.
The quick bite.
No need for goodbyes—he’s the only one awake.
Then the car.
Everyday is Ramadan.
Food and drink equals bathroom, and bathroom equals money.
As in less of it.
So he fasts.
And he drives.
He knows every nook and cranny of the big city.
In fact, the big city seems small.
There was a time when he used to enjoy the customers.
A little back and forth.
Maybe a joke.
Sure, he’d seen it all, even been robbed once.
But it was invigorating.
Now he avoids eye contact.
No time for pleasantries.
Or questions.
They used to ask him about restaurants.
He was ashamed to admit he’d never been.
Except the one time, when the water main broke.
But that was in the Bronx.
No one wanted to go there anyway.
So he kept his head down.
In the younger years, he would look up on occasion.
It was aspirational.
The heights that a New Yorker could reach.
Now he knows he’s meant for the ground floor.
So down it is. (His cervical spine is a problem anyway.)
He doesn’t even think about his little girl anymore.
She was the one he used to work for.
The one he was going to give a better life.
But God had different plans.
A shorter life.
Now he just has his wife.
He is fine working for her too.
It’s just that she can’t go off script either.
So he drives.
East side.
West side.
Harlem.
SoHo.
The financial district. A supporting actor for those with the lead roles.
An occasional bridge or tunnel. Mostly for the airports.
The other destinations are for subway riders.
Where some people see gridlock, he sees life.
He’s learned he’s not a fan of the alternative.
On some days, hunger used to bring him home early.
But he has gained mastery over it.
Now the only thing that brings him home early is the rules.
The rules that have cut into his bottom line.
Those, and a little competition.
Not to mention his costs have gone up.
But the margin is still there.
For the two of them, the slice is good enough.
He doesn’t obsess that it’s more like a sliver.
It is, after all, the price of freedom.
And the cost of the shackles.
