My father sent me a voice note on Monday. Nine minutes long. My father, who normally communicates in one-word texts like ok and good and did you eat.
I was on the 1 train heading uptown, wedged between two tourists studying a subway map upside down, and I put in one earbud and pressed play.
For nine minutes he talked about nothing. The neighbor's new car. The monsoon being late this year. A mango tree that finally fruited. Whether I was eating properly, which is the eternal question of every Indian parent regardless of continent.
He never once said he missed me. My father doesn't have those words in his mouth. His entire generation of men were raised to keep the ache tucked somewhere behind the ribs.
But somewhere around 66th Street, Lincoln Center, I understood that the voice note was the missing. Nine minutes of his voice was the I miss you he couldn't say out loud.
I grew up thinking love had to announce itself. Films taught me that. Big declarations in the rain, running through airports. Even my own generation posts the words constantly.
My father's love is different. It's a monsoon update. A mango tree. Nine minutes of ordinary that he recorded just to hear himself talk to me.
I missed my stop. I'll admit it. I rode two extra stops to 79th because I didn't want to stop listening, and I had to walk back down Broadway in the July heat with my eyes doing something embarrassing.
When I got home I recorded one back. Ten minutes. I told him about Biryani the bodega cat and my subway commute and the mango I ate over the sink. I didn't say I miss you either.
He'll understand. We speak the same language, my father and I. The one made mostly of small things.
Some I love yous arrive disguised as weather reports.
Love,