A Passage to Queens
Eva Silverfine
He was late to work. The train to Manhattan was packed, and he barely was able to push himself on before the doors closed. Still, he managed to turn so he was facing outward, so he could look over the streets, apartments, and businesses from the elevated tracks.
No amount of deodorant could overcome the aroma of so many human bodies packed into a subway car on a summer’s morning. He could smell the exotic blend of spices emanating from the multitude of pores. He had thought he would embrace city life, but almost a year in New York and he still found himself discomfited by the forced intimacy.
After the next stop he would pass the oddly shaped building that always piqued his curiosity. It was three stories — apartments above a store, like so many of the structures that lined the tracks. However, the building, as the corner on which it sat, formed an obtuse angle along its outer walls. He had sketched the interior in his mind—a trapezoid of some sort.The space had to accommodate an acute angle. He should stop there, go in the store to satisfy his curiosity. But he knew he wouldn’t. Just as he was always in a rush to get to work, he was always in a hurry to get back home to his small refuge.
His apartment, also along the tracks, seemed little more than a wide corridor. The rooms were arranged in a line, so he had to pass through one to get to the next. Yet with New York rents he was lucky to have the space he did, even with the daily commute from the hinterlands of Queens. And his living room had two exposures—not only did windows face the tracks but one faced the quieter side street. He had learned that two exposures was considered a fine feature in the city and proudly pointed this out to his only visitors thus far, his parents. But they hadn’t seemed to appreciate this flourish.
He held firm to his spot at the next station as more passengers pressed themselves into the car. Then, as the train slowly gained speed, the off-square building came into view. In the thin slice of time he passed directly opposite, he saw a woman standing at a second-story window. She seemed to be shimmering golden, as if divine. He saw her for barely a second.
No, it was insane to go back — he’d be so late to work it would be noticed. And what if he did go? What would he do? Would he knock on her door?
But he would go. Today. After work.
~ ~ ~
He walked toward his destination on streets crowded with pedestrians, strollers, loiterers, and shop displays that spilled out onto the sidewalk. He still easily became overwhelmed by the density of humanity, the dirty streets—more so here than in Manhattan—the cacophony of trains, buses, car horns, and languages he couldn’t even begin to recognize. It was so different from his white-bread-middle-America home. Even his recent college experience hadn’t taken him far from a rather homogeneous population. On good days he could appreciate the diversity, the vibrancy of so many human beings living in such close proximity, but in the heat of the summer, when he couldn’t escape the scent of trash, the suffocating subway, he found it hard to find any such enthusiasm.
The shops were as diverse as the people — one displaying mannequins in saris next to a Peruvian restaurant next to one that sold all manner of wares — toys, bangles, t-shirts, scarves — that spread out on the concrete and was watched over by a dark-skinned man wearing a turban. Once in a while a familiar chain store was mixed in— a Dunkin Donuts or a CVS.
Five blocks later, drenched in sweat, he reached the building. He stood on the curb and looked up at the windows above, but all he could see were curtains and ceiling. What had he expected? To see her standing there still, so many hours later?
Needing to escape the street, the heat, he entered the large store, named, simply, “Emporium.” His eyes darted to the corner where he had expected to see an acute angle; instead, a wall turned the interior space into a pentagon.
The store, quiet except for soft music — he recognized the sitar, was visually as busy as the streets. Incense masked any odor that may have come through the doors, and the magic of air conditioning offered immediate relief. Near the counter were rows of colorful cards and, next to them, shelves of small bottles. He headed deeper into the store, where he could explore away from the watchful eyes of the thin man at the counter. In the first aisle there was a variety of cooking implements and some dishes. In the next he found no end of decorative bowls and plates, some stone, some brass and engraved with complex patterns, images of peacocks. There were boxes, of different sizes and shapes, covered with brightly colored drawings of antelopes, rabbits, elephants, and tigers. In the next aisle were statuettes. He recognized Buddha, but there were so many more—a man with four arms, another with five heads, another with the head of an elephant, the five-headed man on a goose.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
The lilting voice of a short, round man startled him.
“No, I’m . . . I’m just looking around. Please forgive my ignorance, but are these meant to be decorative? Or are they religious?”
A faint smile spread across the older man’s lips. “For some they are decorative, for others a symbol of their veneration.”
“There are so many different ones.”
“Yes and no.” The man picked up a brass statuette of the figure with five heads. “This is Brahma, the creator.” He picked up another, a man in a circle posed as if dancing. “This is Shiva, the destroyer. And this is Vishnu, the preserver.” He put down Shiva and picked up another man, with four arms, sitting crossed leg and holding a variety of objects. Then he picked up one that was a slender, young male playing a flute. “You may know of Krishna—but Krishna is an incarnation of Vishnu, as are many of these others,” he gestured across the shelves.
“So, there are three different gods.”
“Not so different from your trinity perhaps. The three parts fit together. There are many manifestations of the divine.” The older man nodded and then walked toward the front of the store, where someone had just entered.
Studying the statuettes, the young man picked up one of stone and rubbed his thumb across the smooth onyx. The fantastic images, the soft, melodious music, the complex scent of the incense that left a taste of licorice in his mouth — for a moment he thought he understood what the man had said.
He walked toward the front of the store, intending to ask the man about goddesses. On his way, the rows of colorful cards caught his eye. There, among some now-familiar images, were women. His eyes raced across them to find her. And there she was — well not exactly, but he knew it was her. She stood on a flower and held the same type, a water lily, in two of her four hands. Her skin was almost golden.
He brought the card to the older man. “Who is this?”
“It is Lakshmi, the eternal consort of Vishnu.”
“So, if you see her, what does it mean?”
The older man raised an eyebrow. “Some say every woman is an incarnation of Lakshmi.”
The young man regarded the image. Of course he had not seen her, Lakshmi . . . no, it was just the angle of the morning sun reflecting on the glass.
He paid for the card of Lakshmi’s image, an image of perfection, and then opened the door onto the crowded, noisy, dirty manifestation of the divine.
Eva Silverfine
He was late to work. The train to Manhattan was packed, and he barely was able to push himself on before the doors closed. Still, he managed to turn so he was facing outward, so he could look over the streets, apartments, and businesses from the elevated tracks.
No amount of deodorant could overcome the aroma of so many human bodies packed into a subway car on a summer’s morning. He could smell the exotic blend of spices emanating from the multitude of pores. He had thought he would embrace city life, but almost a year in New York and he still found himself discomfited by the forced intimacy.
After the next stop he would pass the oddly shaped building that always piqued his curiosity. It was three stories — apartments above a store, like so many of the structures that lined the tracks. However, the building, as the corner on which it sat, formed an obtuse angle along its outer walls. He had sketched the interior in his mind—a trapezoid of some sort.The space had to accommodate an acute angle. He should stop there, go in the store to satisfy his curiosity. But he knew he wouldn’t. Just as he was always in a rush to get to work, he was always in a hurry to get back home to his small refuge.
His apartment, also along the tracks, seemed little more than a wide corridor. The rooms were arranged in a line, so he had to pass through one to get to the next. Yet with New York rents he was lucky to have the space he did, even with the daily commute from the hinterlands of Queens. And his living room had two exposures—not only did windows face the tracks but one faced the quieter side street. He had learned that two exposures was considered a fine feature in the city and proudly pointed this out to his only visitors thus far, his parents. But they hadn’t seemed to appreciate this flourish.
He held firm to his spot at the next station as more passengers pressed themselves into the car. Then, as the train slowly gained speed, the off-square building came into view. In the thin slice of time he passed directly opposite, he saw a woman standing at a second-story window. She seemed to be shimmering golden, as if divine. He saw her for barely a second.
No, it was insane to go back — he’d be so late to work it would be noticed. And what if he did go? What would he do? Would he knock on her door?
But he would go. Today. After work.
~ ~ ~
He walked toward his destination on streets crowded with pedestrians, strollers, loiterers, and shop displays that spilled out onto the sidewalk. He still easily became overwhelmed by the density of humanity, the dirty streets—more so here than in Manhattan—the cacophony of trains, buses, car horns, and languages he couldn’t even begin to recognize. It was so different from his white-bread-middle-America home. Even his recent college experience hadn’t taken him far from a rather homogeneous population. On good days he could appreciate the diversity, the vibrancy of so many human beings living in such close proximity, but in the heat of the summer, when he couldn’t escape the scent of trash, the suffocating subway, he found it hard to find any such enthusiasm.
The shops were as diverse as the people — one displaying mannequins in saris next to a Peruvian restaurant next to one that sold all manner of wares — toys, bangles, t-shirts, scarves — that spread out on the concrete and was watched over by a dark-skinned man wearing a turban. Once in a while a familiar chain store was mixed in— a Dunkin Donuts or a CVS.
Five blocks later, drenched in sweat, he reached the building. He stood on the curb and looked up at the windows above, but all he could see were curtains and ceiling. What had he expected? To see her standing there still, so many hours later?
Needing to escape the street, the heat, he entered the large store, named, simply, “Emporium.” His eyes darted to the corner where he had expected to see an acute angle; instead, a wall turned the interior space into a pentagon.
The store, quiet except for soft music — he recognized the sitar, was visually as busy as the streets. Incense masked any odor that may have come through the doors, and the magic of air conditioning offered immediate relief. Near the counter were rows of colorful cards and, next to them, shelves of small bottles. He headed deeper into the store, where he could explore away from the watchful eyes of the thin man at the counter. In the first aisle there was a variety of cooking implements and some dishes. In the next he found no end of decorative bowls and plates, some stone, some brass and engraved with complex patterns, images of peacocks. There were boxes, of different sizes and shapes, covered with brightly colored drawings of antelopes, rabbits, elephants, and tigers. In the next aisle were statuettes. He recognized Buddha, but there were so many more—a man with four arms, another with five heads, another with the head of an elephant, the five-headed man on a goose.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
The lilting voice of a short, round man startled him.
“No, I’m . . . I’m just looking around. Please forgive my ignorance, but are these meant to be decorative? Or are they religious?”
A faint smile spread across the older man’s lips. “For some they are decorative, for others a symbol of their veneration.”
“There are so many different ones.”
“Yes and no.” The man picked up a brass statuette of the figure with five heads. “This is Brahma, the creator.” He picked up another, a man in a circle posed as if dancing. “This is Shiva, the destroyer. And this is Vishnu, the preserver.” He put down Shiva and picked up another man, with four arms, sitting crossed leg and holding a variety of objects. Then he picked up one that was a slender, young male playing a flute. “You may know of Krishna—but Krishna is an incarnation of Vishnu, as are many of these others,” he gestured across the shelves.
“So, there are three different gods.”
“Not so different from your trinity perhaps. The three parts fit together. There are many manifestations of the divine.” The older man nodded and then walked toward the front of the store, where someone had just entered.
Studying the statuettes, the young man picked up one of stone and rubbed his thumb across the smooth onyx. The fantastic images, the soft, melodious music, the complex scent of the incense that left a taste of licorice in his mouth — for a moment he thought he understood what the man had said.
He walked toward the front of the store, intending to ask the man about goddesses. On his way, the rows of colorful cards caught his eye. There, among some now-familiar images, were women. His eyes raced across them to find her. And there she was — well not exactly, but he knew it was her. She stood on a flower and held the same type, a water lily, in two of her four hands. Her skin was almost golden.
He brought the card to the older man. “Who is this?”
“It is Lakshmi, the eternal consort of Vishnu.”
“So, if you see her, what does it mean?”
The older man raised an eyebrow. “Some say every woman is an incarnation of Lakshmi.”
The young man regarded the image. Of course he had not seen her, Lakshmi . . . no, it was just the angle of the morning sun reflecting on the glass.
He paid for the card of Lakshmi’s image, an image of perfection, and then opened the door onto the crowded, noisy, dirty manifestation of the divine.