Gotham Chopra - Familiar Strangers: Finding Wisdom In The Real World

Contents

This book is dedicated to all the strangers everywhere
in times of both war and peace
who make life worth living.

Foreword

By the summer of 2001, after several years out on the road recovering stories for this text, I had triumphantly put pen to paper for the last time for this endeavor. Then one September morning the world changed.

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, at 8 A.M. I boarded a flight in New York headed for Los Angeles. Shortly we rolled out onto the runway, lurched back, fired down the long stretch of pavement, and soared into the sky. It must have been almost 8:30 A.M. when I looked over my shoulder and gazed out at the New York skyline noting the clear view from Columbia University, my alma mater, all the way down to the World Trade Center. What a beautiful day, I thought to myself. I wish I wasnt leaving. I then closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

A little over ninety minutes later I awoke when the pilots voice came over the loudspeaker. Ladies and gentlemen, he announced in a calm voice, we are making an emergency landing in Cincinnati because of an apparent terrorist attack in the New York area. Please stay calm...

There was a nervous murmur throughout the cabin. The journalist in me demanded immediate information and I reached for the phone. I quickly ran my credit card through the phone, waited for the dial tone, and dialed our News Desk in Los Angeles. The phone cackled, but when the other line picked up, there was no mistaking the panicked tone in one of my colleagues.

Are you okay? she asked.

I am. I asked for further information.

Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center. Theyre coming down. Oh, My God, theyre coming down...

The phone cut off and went dead. I frantically redialed.

No luck.

I tried my sister in Los Angeles.

No luck.

I slowly sat back in my chair and began to panic. I knew my father had flown out of New York on a different flight about an hour before me. I knew my mother was on a flight originating in London destined for San Diego. My fiancea fourth-year medical studentworked in New York City. I tried to meditate and tell myself that everyone would be okay. Tears burned my eyes.

When we touched down twenty minutes later, the pilot instructed us not to turn on our cell phones. He gave us instructions to immediately evacuate the plane and follow the instructions of security personnel. We did.

Finally in the terminal, I reached for my phone and turned it on. There I stood huddled with hundreds of other interrupted passengers and gazed up at the television. The fresh images of two smoldering stumpsthe remains of the towers of the World Trade Centerplayed on the screen. Finally I got in touch with my sister, Mallika, who was sobbing on the other end of the phone.

Im okay... wheres Papa... wheres Mom?

Mallika supplied all of the answerseveryone was safe. She had managed to speak to my fiance as well, who was already at one of the local hospitals doing whatever she could to help. I placed my next call again to the office. I knew that there was work at hand. Sure enough, I already had a car reserved and was destined back for New York. At the rental agency, there was a great shortage of cars. People in line started shouting out their destinations and everyone began carpooling. I joined two other men from the New York area and we were off. Over the next twelve hours we listened closely to the radio as details of the terrorist attack emerged. Every five minutes the name of another family member or friend popped into my head and I dialed the number frantically. Most New York numbers were jammed or out of service. One friend I was able to contact informed me that he was unable to contact someone we both knew. He worked in the 105th floor of one of the towers. He was scheduled to attend an 8:30 meeting. Someone from the meeting had called to say they had survived the initial attack and were waiting for a rescue team. No one had heard from any of them since.

As we cut through the rural countryside of Ohio and then Pennsylvania, I chatted intermittently with the two strangers I had teamed up with.

Does this mean we go to war? one of them said softly.

There was a silence in the car.

This means weve already been at war, the other gentleman said warily. This sort of violence perpetuates external war, but it is the product of an internal one.

In about half an hour, we stopped at a lonely gas station by the side of the highway. By the driveway a decrepit horse-drawn cart lay on the grass, young Amish gentlemen reclined in the shaded seating area listening to an old transistor radio.

Good afternoon, sir, he greeted me as I walked toward a pay phone near the cart. Phone doesnt work, I am afraid.

Its nice here, I remarked to him, taking in the glorious sunset that was at hand.

Yes, it is. He lowered the volume on his radio. Try to take a bit of this with you wherever you are going.

I nodded.

Tell whomever you meet wherever you are going that a stranger sends his love and his prayers.

We exchanged another nod of acknowledgment and I climbed back into the car.

Finally, just after midnight, we made it just to the edge of New York City, in Fort Lee, New Jersey. There would be no crossing into Manhattan Islandall the bridges and tunnels had been sealed. I spent the night in New Jersey unable to sleep much. At about 2 A.M., for the first time, I made contact with my fiance who was safe and sound at home. We both cried softly into the phone. By 6 A.M., I was dressed and ready to get in to the city. The only way to get across the river was via the commuter trains, which were offering limited services. As we pulled toward the station in Hoboken, New Jersey, the trains slowed to a stop. There on the other side of the river they stood, like ashen smoking gravestones, the ruins of the twin towers. The train car was silent as everyone gazed out the window. A young woman beside me began to whimper. Another man lowered his head into his hands and muffled his sobs.

Back in the city, people walked around in a daze. The streets were empty of cars but full of wandering pedestrians, walking directly down the middle of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. As we made our way downtown (I had already hooked up with a TV crew), we noticed small cafs open and people filling the outside sidewalk seats. People sat mostly in silence gazing upwards at the thick plume of white smoke still snaking its way westward. At West Fourth Street, a group of kids played basketball. At one point the ball rolled out of play. A young shirtless boy ran after the ball and bent down to pick it up. When he lifted his head, he looked up at the air at the same thick trail of smoke. He shook his head and wiped away something from his eyeseither sweat or tearsand turned away.

Walking home, I stopped and talked to a police officer. After chatting a few minutes, the officer asked me if I would like to see ground zero. I agreed to stay just at the edge away from the workers. The pictures on television of the devastation caused by Tuesdays attack did the scene of the crime absolutely no justice. In real life it appeared as if an asteroid had hit the lower part of Manhattan. Charred, twisted slabs of metal and concrete curled in every direction. It was unfathomable, unspeakable, incomprehensible.

On Wednesday night, while in a cab returning from work to my apartment, I noticed the Muslim name of my driver. He noticed the tone of my skin in the rearview mirror. He nodded at me. On the radio, the commentator was relaying a warning to all men of Middle Eastern and South Asian descentto be wary of unwarranted violent reprisals from agitated residents of the city.