Reflections on New York September 15, 1948

Days spent in New York are usually memorable, especially when it is a farewell call to the great city. For me it was a day of farewell. There was nothing extraordinary about my last day in New York. After a full day of activity I rested for a while. I woke up the following day and I donned my favorite plaid suit, crossed Lexington Avenue for a luncheon appointment with an old reactionary acquaintance of the family whom I had not met before.

Apart from his anachronistic views, this man gave me a false alarm on immigration formalities. His false information kept me occupied for a number of precious hours.

On returning to the hotel I met a university friend, a student of economics from the University of Southern California, Selman the Turk. He invited me for a Turkish dinner. The day previous I had entertained him to a meal at the Raja Restaurant. This was his sweet way of returning the “honour” in the Asian style.

The dinner was delicious. After the repast, we sat discussing almost everything under the hidden sun of Manhattan, everything from Pan-Islamism to import regulations, from the nostalgic memories of glittering Los Angeles to the Young Turks’ Revolution, from geology to the morals of American women, from cricket to communism and hamburgers. Eventually, at about midnight, the head waiter had to drive us out. Selman was furious and showed it by leaving no tip. The waiter muttered something in Turkish but Selman did not bother to answer.

From the restaurant we loitered about aimlessly. Both silent, both thinking. We walked into a movie. He vetoed some I wanted to see and I did the same. The result was a miserable compromise, like all compromises. It was an early 1930 combination of Gary Cooper and Cary Grant. Out we came at three-thirty in the morning. The city was half dozing but yet alive. We walked in the direction of Selman’s hotel, criticizing the movie and everything connected with the film industry. In about half an hour we reached the hotel and there Selman tried to convince me to join him in Switzerland for a few days. I did not agree. I told him that beautiful little Switzerland bored me. We again compromised to meet in London in Piccadilly and Leicester Square.

At about five, “when dawn’s left hand was in the sky,” I was back on the boulevard of the great city. As I sailed along, quite exhausted, a host of thoughts went through my mind in quick succession, thoughts of the first days in the great city and of the many wonderful moments spent in it on my numerous visits. All the vivid moments returned to my mind. I thought of the tranquil East Coast now greener than ever before.

In the space of these breezy young years I had begun to understand this country. So many ideas and thoughts crossed my mind in this last walk. I looked at all that was around me, and I saw silent, barren streets, garbage cleaners, milkmen and the erect, masculine sky-scrapers standing undisturbed and unaffected by the events that went on inside them. For once they no longer appeared to be cement jungles. For once they seemed to be terribly human, soaring with emotion. It was a strange feeling, the strangest I have felt. Suddenly their character changed. The mask was withdrawn.

Indeed, these skyscrapers no longer appeared as cold monuments. They began to symbolize something magnificent—the elevation of man. They seemed to be the real creation, the only creation of human effort, a projection of man’s own soul, a reminder of our efforts to reach the highest heights. Lofty, erect structures, moulded out of dust and rubble, servants and slaves of humanity.

As I peered a little higher, and still higher, I began to wonder if these gigantic architectural feats were made in our interest or whether they were even within our control. I wondered if they had got out of hand to become uncontrollable monsters. I wondered if they lived for themselves and selfishly dictated their own lives. I imagined that they were capable of plotting against their own creator called man. As I walked along deliberately confusing myself, I plunged into further fancy and came to the rash conclusion that these man-made monsters believed that man had nothing to do with their creation, just as some men believe that God took no part in their creation. I imagined them to believe that since they were not all alike, not all identical, they were the products of the law of evolution—Darwin put in reverse.

Such thoughts frightened me. My human pride was hurt. My inner feelings were brought out. I almost shouted and rebuked the tall stone structures, calling them ungrateful. At the same time, knowing full well that I had made them, they were a source of pride to me, a reminder of my progress and ingenuity. From caves to skyscrapers, from darkness to glowing neon lights, these were my accomplishments. I was pleased; I was proud.

Onward as I went, the portrait of my civilization’s progress enlarged to the extent that I began to see the basic contradictions within the span of progress. I thought of the cruel wars that had obliterated chunks of the human race. I thought of persecutions and the racial theories of supremacy. I thought of the hatred and the bigotry that had emerged. I thought of all the pitiable repercussions of our times.

I wondered again. Was this progress or regression? Caves and darkness’s had their failings, but the current propensities went beyond the limits of goodness. People in primitive times were hospitable and simple. Now they are cold and aloof and complex. Is this progress or regression? I went on thinking more and more about this, till I staggered into my room.

Hardly had the words progress and regression stopped ringing in my ears when the telephone buzzed. “It’s time to leave, sir,” said the hotel clerk.

Although I left the world of New York and reached Pakistan I still wondered and wondered whether man in the cave was more blessed than his son in the skyscraper.