Manhattan isn’t so much an island of dreams as it is an island of dreamers. Ranging from the days of refugee immigrants passing through Ellis Island to today’s wide-eyed 21-year-olds moving to the big city, those who move to New York are captivated not by the reality of the dream of making it in New York, but rather the irreverence and euphoria of the dream itself. To most of these unassuming immigrants who choose to brave New York’s infinity, New York represents more than success – it represents freedom.
I was once one such wide-eyed 21-year-old. I moved to New York with little more than that dream and two heavy suitcases that I realized I would have to lug around on a hot August night. Drenched in a humid sweat, I lifted my suitcases into what seemed like a semi-legitimate airport shuttle and told the driver the address. “Going to Manhattan?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Manhattan.”

What seemed like hours later, we had traversed through the ominous Triborough Bridge into the gaping city, where at once the energy seemed to overwhelm. The youthful exuberance of east village hipsters soon gave way to the frenetic chaos of Chinatown. Travelling further north, the entropy of Chinatown suddenly turned into the excess of Soho, the vastness of Times Square and finally the subdued sophistication of the Upper West side. After paying the shuttle bus driver, I checked into an 8×10 square foot room that would be my apartment for the next two years. The depressive effect of a plastic mattress and a small wooden desk was mitigated only by a small window at the end of the room. The view was hazy, but there was a small illumination that was instantly recognizable – the Empire State building.

My relationship with Manhattan took on various incarnations. At first, we had a euphoric romance where I…

By Anmol Bhagchand

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